


Red Fort Cove

by IsolationShepherd



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canada, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Kabby, Mystery, Not going to reveal much in the tags, Sea, Searching, Spooky, coast, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:56:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsolationShepherd/pseuds/IsolationShepherd
Summary: Abby Griffin moves to a remote village on the east coast of Canada to renovate an old building and open a restaurant. The locals seem superstitious about what she's doing with the shack and refuse to help. She meets Marcus Kane, a man searching for meaning in the place of his birth. He offers his help, seemingly unperturbed by the curse surrounding the project, but does he know more than he's letting on? What is the mystery surrounding Shack 309, Abby's soon-to-be restaurant, and in her quest to uncover the truth, will Abby put herself and Marcus in danger?This is a birthday present for my favourite Canadian, April Maple, and will be approximately 15 chapters posted every couple of days culminating on Halloween.Enjoy!
Relationships: Abby Griffin & Marcus Kane, Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane
Comments: 162
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

Red Fort Cove was a wild, remote outpost on the Atlantic Ocean in an area of Canada where Labrador stared across the water at Newfoundland. It was one of a dozen villages strung out along a stretch of coast that was still largely inaccessible. Red Fort Cove was one of the lucky ones, in that it had a road, the optimistically named Trans Labrador Highway, which was a twisting two-lane blacktop frequently cut off in winter. The nearest large town on the mainland was Labrador City, a two-day drive to the west. For most things in life the people of Red Fort Cove and its surrounds went across the Gulf to the island of Newfoundland. Some of the Cove’s neighbouring villages were as cut off now as they were when they were settled by the English and the Irish some two hundred years before, and accessible only by boat.

The landscape was stripped back to basics. Primitive. Rock and sea. Mosses and heathers and thin grasses on the high ground, sea pinks and thrift on the shore. Bent-backed tuckamores shouldered the burden of being the only tree. A series of rivers fissured through the rocks spawning Atlantic salmon and a fluctuating prosperity. The air was salt and fish and seaweed, fetid in the brief summer months when the fish processing plants were at full pelt, pure as the glacier ice that floated through the Sound in the long, cold winter. The sea gave of its bounty stubbornly, and sometimes when it was wild and moody it took back, and the people mourned. 

The cove was luckier than the other villages, not just because it had the road, but also because it had most of the area’s historical remains. The old red fort from which it got its name was up on a promontory, the crumbled walls standing a now purely ornamental guard against invaders. There were ice houses buried in the hills, and ancient cemeteries. For the modern taste there were fishing trips and kayaking from the tiny harbour, hiking and geology trails over the moors, dilapidated fishing shacks framed against the blue skies and muddy shore, perfect for that all-important Instagram post. All of these brought tourists to the area, and tourists brought money.

At the last census there were exactly one hundred people permanently living in Red Fort Cove, most of them descended from the English and Irish settlers. Being so far away from the rest of Canada, the villagers considered themselves separate from everyone else. They belonged to their village first, and then to the coast. In the summer of Twenty Nineteen the number of inhabitants swelled by one. 

Abby Griffin was forty years old. A brown-haired, brown-eyed elfin woman, she was long-legged and short-bodied with cheekbones that could cut through rock. People who didn’t know her often equated her short stature and the slightness of her frame with fragility and weakness. They were wrong. She was fierce of mind and temper, stubborn as the roiling sea. She didn’t suffer fools, but she was loyal to the people she loved, warm and big-hearted. She was determined, a fighter, not easy to defeat.

“Goddammit!” she screamed into the wind. “Goddamn backward, useless, racist, idiots!”

She threw her phone onto the ground in a fit of temper then bent hurriedly to pick it up, hoping that the screen wouldn’t be cracked. It would take weeks to get another one delivered to this god-forsaken, back-end arsehole of a place! The phone had landed on a lonely clump of grass which was a stroke of much-needed luck. She picked it up, dusted off crumbs of soil and slipped it into her pocket. She sank onto the clump of saviour grass and stared out to sea.

She’d been here three months now. Three whole precious months of reasonable weather and calm waters. She should have been much further ahead with her restaurant project, but she’d had nothing but problems, and it felt as though the old shack had hardly changed since she’d bought it. It was supposed to be weathertight by now, enabling her to work on the interior during the long winter months so she’d be ready to open the following summer. 

For the first time in her life, Abby felt defeated. She had two problems and she couldn’t see how to solve either of them. Her first problem was that she was what the locals called a ‘Come From Away,’ an incomer, outsider, foreigner, even though she was as Canadian as they were. She came from Toronto and might as well have come from Mars. The local municipality officers had been open-armed and welcoming when she’d approached them with her proposal to turn the large but crumbling wooden shack that stood on a promontory above the shore into a destination restaurant serving high quality meals from the best local produce. They’d assured her that her plan to employ local people to restore the building and staff the business would leave the villagers overwhelmed with joy. That had not exactly been the case.

The area had a reputation for being friendly, the tourist attractions and local businesses got good reviews on TripAdvisor. She’d done her research, knew that similar projects in other parts of the eastern seaboard had been successful. She’d been confident, arrived back in June brimming with enthusiasm and an eagerness to start. She hadn’t reckoned on, could never have known about, the second problem that she couldn’t overcome. The locals didn’t like her plans for the shack. They were okay with the idea of a restaurant, delighted with the prospect of jobs. ‘Anywhere but here,’ they’d said. ‘Not this building. Not this place.”

No one would be drawn on why not here, not even the municipal officers who’d welcomed her, or the person who’d sold her the shack who was no longer taking her calls. One of the two local men who had spent some time fixing up the building had given into pressure and downed tools a week ago and she’d just received a call from the other one saying he could no longer come to work. She didn’t know what to do.

She couldn’t change the fact she wasn’t from around here, but she had tried hard to win the people over, had expected there might be some resistance and had been prepared for it. She couldn’t change the building she’d bought; had sunk all the money from her husband’s death benefits into it and had nothing left except that which was allocated to the restoration. She was a chef and an administrator. She could gut fish, butcher meat, cook, organise, manage, source, create, decorate, clean, greet guests, anything required to make the business a success. She couldn’t finish wiring the electrics, install the huge, expensive windows that were coming by boat in two weeks’ time, do the plumbing, or the carpentry or any of the practical jobs that would make the building safe and usable. Well, she probably could if she had the time to learn, but she didn’t.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, brought up the search engine and googled Red Fort Cove. There was nothing that she hadn’t already seen when she’d first looked into the area. She googled wooden shacks and brought up a lot of aesthetically pleasing images but nothing that seemed to be related to her particular building. It didn’t have an official name, was known as Shack 309 on the deeds. She googled that anyway but nothing relevant came up. She was at a loss to know why the locals didn’t want her to improve the eyesore of a building. The only thing she could do was bring in contractors from outside the area but that would be expensive and she’d be unlikely to find anyone this side of winter.

She lay back on the ground, sharp grass scratching her neck and the backs of her bare arms. Blue sky above, white wisps of high cloud, herring gulls circling, laughing. She closed her eyes. The air carried the last of the summer’s warmth, the smell of brine, of mussels cooked in cream and garlic, char with lemon butter, salmon smoked over woodchips. She sighed. Was that ever going to be? She sat up again, tried to will herself to move.

Below the promontory the sea foamed, spitting up froths of white as though it shared the anger and frustration of its newest neighbour. The gannets swooped, calling to each other hoarsely. In the sea and on the land around, sacrifices were made, lives given to sustain others. Nothing cared about Abby and her problems. There was no one to turn to except herself. She stood, brushed the earth from her jeans. It was up to her. There was always another way; she just had to find it.

\---

Abby spent the afternoon in the small house she was renting a few hundred yards further up the hill, googling contractors from the more populous areas of St. John’s and even as far as Québec City, people who didn’t have superstitions about old wooden shacks and would hopefully be willing to travel here and work. She requested quotes from everyone then shut down her laptop. There was nothing more she could do today.

There was an hour of light left if she was lucky. She pulled on her jacket and went out, down past the shack, stumbling along the stony track to the shore. The tide was on its way out. Waders, long-beaked, heads down, poked the sand. A lone sandpiper scurried over the rocks, plaintively calling. She walked the shoreline, head down like the birds, looking for treasure. She picked up shells, sea glass, driftwood, put them in her bag. She had a good collection now, ready for the snowed-in winter days when she’d planned to make art for the restaurant.

The sun was sinking, the remains of the old fort on the other side of the cove kiln-fired, baking red. It spilled into the sea, molten, red-gold. Ahead a light flickered on, surprising Abby because that area of the shore was usually dark. There was another shack there, more intact than hers but a lot smaller, not much more than a shed. No one lived there, or so she’d assumed. She walked soft-footed across the sand, careful on the slippery rocks. A brown bird skittered away in front of her. Dunlin or Sanderling, hard to tell in this light.

She paused at the corner of the shack, rested her hand on its warm, dark wood, put her ear to it. Nothing. She eased towards the light. A quick glance. Somebody there but facing away. She got closer, looked for longer. A small room. Fireplace cold, two armchairs next to it. At the far end a table and at the table a man. Dark hair, short at the back. He had on a black sweater, cable knit. The table was honeyed wood, curved lines, wide, drunken legs. The chair the same. Hand-made. By him? A whistle blew, startling Abby. The chair scraped and the man stood. Abby ducked below the windowsill.

After a moment she rose, peered inside. The man had gone, and the table was in full view. It took her a moment to realise what she was looking at. It was the cove, a miniature version. She could see the fort on the left, and on the right her shack. In between, tiny houses. The man returned carrying a steaming mug and she ducked down again, sat with her back to the clapboard, her arse on cold rock. The place had been shuttered since she’d been in the cove. Who was this guy? Did he live here?

The light was nearly gone, and a chill was descending, or rising more like, through the rock into her body. She stood, slipped on a loose boulder, managed to save herself from falling through an act of sheer will, though her ankle had twisted and was painful. She hobbled back the way she’d come but hadn’t made it past the end of the shack when the door opened, and light spilled out.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” A deep voice. Gruff. Its owner stepped out, looking straight ahead.

Abby froze, caught in the half-light. If he didn’t look this way, she’d be fine.

He looked.

“Hi!” he said. “You okay?”

“I slipped. It’s fine.” She turned, hobbled a few steps.

“You don’t look fine.”

She felt his hand on her elbow, shook it off. “I am.”

He took a step back, folded his arms. He was more movement than substance, barely visible, silhouetted by the light from the door and window. “What were you doing here?”

“Nothing.”

“I see. So you weren’t peering through my window a moment ago? That wasn’t you?”

She grew warm, was glad of the gloom. “I was curious. Hadn’t seen the light on before. Thought perhaps you were a burglar.”

“Do you still think that?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you’re willing to risk it you can come in for a moment, let me check your ankle.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a lot of things.”

That wasn’t much of an answer, but the few steps she’d taken had hurt, and some strapping might make her return journey less painful.

“Very well,” she said, and when he took her elbow this time, she let him, was guided over the rocks into the house.

He settled her in one of the armchairs, went out and a few moments later came back with an armful of firewood.

“I hadn’t realised how cold it was getting,” he said, arranging the wood and then lighting it. It caught quickly, so he must be a practised hand.

He sat in the other armchair, seemingly in no hurry to tend to her ankle. Abby was curious about him, so didn’t press the subject.

“When the sun goes so does the warmth,” she said.

“It only gets worse from here on out.”

He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. The irises were a muddy brown, amber-tinged in the firelight. He had thin, scarred lips and a strong nose that jutted out from his face like the promontory her restaurant sat on. He held it proudly, looked down it at her. She felt examined, microscopic. There were lines beneath his eyes as deep and dark as the fissures in the hills above, making him look bruised, like he’d been in a fight. His stubble was three, maybe four days old. Not quite a beard but on its way. His skin was olive brown, but not sun or wind burned. It looked natural. She thought he was about her age. Was he a Come From Away like her?

The scent of woodsmoke filled the air, sweet and primitively comforting.

“Can I get you a drink?” he said.

“Do you have coffee?”

“Tea.”

“Tea is fine. Black.”

“That’s good. I don’t have milk.” He disappeared into another room. Water running, the clank of a kettle settling on a stove, the hiss of gas, a flame whooshing. He didn’t come back until after the whistle had blown and he had a mug in one hand and a first aid kit in the other.

“Is that your medical bag?” said Abby.

“I’m fully qualified to wield a bandage,” he said, setting the kit down next to his chair. He handed her the mug.

“What’s your name?” she said, looking at him over the rim of her mug as she took a sip. It was a strong tea, the blend wood scented.

“Marcus Kane. And you are?”

“Abby Griffin. Are you a Come From Away?”

He laughed softly. “No, although I have been away. I was born here. Not in this shack, although it belongs to my family.” His accent was gentler than that of the villagers she’d met. Perhaps he’d been away a long time.

“Are you living here?”

“Yes.” He got up and went to the table, brought back his own mug, settled back in his chair. “What are you doing in Red Fort Cove, Abby Griffin?”

“I bought the old shack on the promontory. Number 309.”

“Aah. To live in?”

“No. I’m opening a restaurant.”

He nodded slowly, his warm brown eyes looking intently at her but giving nothing away. “Quite the venture.”

She sized him up, figured if he’d lived here all his life he would know why the locals were refusing to work with her. “It’s proving difficult.”

“How so?”

“I can’t get anyone to work on the restoration. They refuse.”

“Have they said why?”

“No. Just that they couldn’t support the restaurant in that particular building. Anywhere else but there.”

He pursed his lips, nodded sagely but didn’t speak.

“Do you have any idea why they won’t work with me?”

He cupped his mug with both hands, took a slow sip. “No.”

Abby thought he was lying but didn’t feel as though she should push it. At least he spoke to her, wasn’t dismissing her as an incomer. Might be best to keep him onside, try and worm information out of him another way.

He set his mug on the hearth. “Shall we sort out your ankle?” he said, dragging his first aid kit in front of him and opening it.

Abby unfastened her boot, eased it off gingerly. Marcus wiggled his chair closer, took her leg and placed it on his knee. He pulled off her sock, pushed up her jeans. He pressed the flesh of her ankle with fingers that were rough tipped but gentle.

“It’s swollen. Can you move it?”

Abby tried to rotate it and pain shot up her leg. Her foot felt stiff and unwieldy. She grimaced. “Not much.”

“I don’t have any ice or even a bag of peas. Best thing we can do is strap it up and get you home.”

Marcus unravelled a bandage and tied it neatly around her ankle. He eased her sock over it then took her boot, tried to put it back on, but her foot had swollen further since being released from its prison and the pain was too great.

“Wait there,” Marcus said, as though she was going to go anywhere with one boot and a damaged ankle.

When he returned, he had one of those Jesus sandals people wore a lot in the seventies. He strapped her foot into it. “That will do, hopefully.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He slung her bag across his chest, handed her the boot. “Lean on me,” he said, and she put her arm around his waist. He was thin beneath the chunky sweater, his bony hip the only thing to get a grip of. She held on tight as he put his arm around her shoulder, and they hobbled towards the door.

“What are you making?” she said as they passed the model of the village.

“It’s just a hobby,” he replied, opening the door and helping her hop down the steps.

He didn’t offer any further explanation so Abby let it go. She had more questions now than she’d had when she’d peered through his window. Where had he been? Why was he living in a shack on the shore? What did he know about her place and the locals’ attitude? Why had he lied about it, if he had?

It was black outside, the only light coming from the few stars that had started to pepper the sky. Marcus was surefooted, though, knew how to avoid the rocks and stick to the softer sand. Her shack loomed out of the darkness as they made their way up the rocky path, startling Abby. She let out a soft cry.

“Spooky in the dark, isn’t it?” Marcus said, gripping her shoulder tighter.

“I didn’t think we were as close as we are, that’s all.”

At her house he handed over her bag and she leaned on him while she fumbled in it for her key. He took her inside, settled her onto the sofa. He stood looking at her, tall and dark and haunted looking in the orange glow of the lamp.

“This is the old Blake house,” he said.

“I don’t know who owns it. It’s rented through an agency.”

“They don’t own it now. They owned your shack as well, a long time ago.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. I’ll rest it tomorrow. I really appreciate you helping me.”

“Of course. I’ll let myself out.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

“Good night, Abby.”

He left and she relaxed. There was something about him she couldn’t put her finger on. He’d been nothing but kind and considerate and yet...

She looked down at her foot. She was still wearing his sandal. She undid the straps, took it off. She’d have to take it back to him; it would give her an excuse to question him further.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby does some research, and meets Marcus again.

Abby’s ankle made it too painful for her to do much except hobble around her house, so she spent her time on her laptop, the click clacking of the keys a constant backdrop to her days. Outside, the sky had grown moody and dark and the wind howled, drowning the birds out. She was glad to be inside, but it was another reminder that the summer was over, and Fall would be short. She was running out of time to get the necessary work done on the shack.

She answered queries from the contractors she’d emailed, and one had already come back with a ridiculous quote. He must have smelled her desperation because she figured she could build a brand-new house for what he was proposing to charge. She deleted his email without reply.

She found online tutorials in plumbing and plastering and started watching them, taking meticulous notes which she kept in separate binders. The only thing she’d have to get a professional to do was the electrics, everything else she could do herself if she had to. It was optimistic of her to imagine she could make a good fist of any of the work, but Abby had a strong sense of her own worth and believed nothing was impossible if you had faith in it and yourself. This might seem arrogant to some, but it had got her through the death of her husband, and it had got her here, to the verge of a new and exciting chapter. She would prevail, one way or another.

When two days of watching YouTube videos left her dreaming about U-bends and plasticisers, she switched tack. Marcus had mentioned that the house and her shack had been owned by someone called Blake. She googled the name in conjunction with Red Fort Cove but there was nothing. She tried every search term she could think of, but no results were returned. Hmm. These days almost everybody had some trace on the internet, even people who’d died years ago popped up on genealogy websites or named in someone’s old school photo. She’d googled herself once, but the first pages were all about the accident, so she’d closed it down, not willing to relive it all so viscerally.

She typed the name Marcus Kane into the search bar, hovered with her finger over the enter key, the warmth of guilt seeping into her veins. She didn’t know him, had already invaded his privacy once. She pulled back, shut down the web browser and the laptop. The mystery surrounding him was intriguing. It would be more fun to uncover the details slowly.

She lay on the sofa, her foot raised on a cushion, and picked up her book. She was reading _Random Passage_ by Bernice Morgan, which was set in neighbouring Newfoundland a couple of centuries ago, but which could have been describing Red Fort Cove and the other villages along the coast. Places and lives formed and shaped by the rock and the ocean. The people spoke the same way, words tumbling like a river in spate, rushing out of the mouth too fast to catch and hold onto.

By the third day her foot was able to hold her weight. The sky was grey, rain held within it, but for the moment it was clear, so Abby took the opportunity to test her ankle and headed down to the shore. She had the sandal in her bag, was going to return it to Marcus. She walked across the sand, waiting for the moment her ankle gave in and rolled but it didn’t come. She was more confident walking up the rough stone steps to his front door. She knocked, waited. No answer. She went to the window, looked in. Same scene as before except no Marcus. She left the sandal on the doorstep, didn’t bother with a note as the grey was deepening, and the coming rain would wash it away.

On the beach she paused, head bent. A sunstar, perfectly intact, twelve orange arms radiating out from a pink and yellow centre. “Amazing!” she said. She went to the shallow, took a plastic box from her bag, filled it with water then returned to the starfish. She was easing it gently into the box when she heard the roar of an outboard motor. She looked up. A small wooden dory appeared, orange base, green trim. She’d seen the type everywhere. It beached where she’d been getting the water a minute ago. A man jumped out, hauled the boat further up the sand. Black cargo pants, black cable knit sweater. Dark hair. Marcus.

He marched up the beach, fishing rod slung over his shoulder, wicker basket in his hand.

“Abby Griffin!” he said, stopping in front of her. His hair was windblown and flopped into his eyes. He shook his head to try and move it. “I take it your ankle has recovered?”

“It has. Thank you.”

“That’s good. What are you doing?”

“I found a sunstar.” She tipped the last of the legs into the box, straightened up, showed it to him.

“Beautiful. What do you intend to do with it?”

“If it’s dead, which I think it is, I’ll use it in one of my artworks.”

“You’re an artist as well as restauranteur?” he said, pushing out his bottom lip and raising his eyebrows as though he didn’t believe her.

“I’m making natural art for the restaurant. I’m not an artist.”

“Sounds creative to me.”

“I enjoy it.”

He nodded. The dark lines under his eyes seemed to have diminished, although it could be the harsher daylight evening out his skin tone.

“Have you caught anything?” she said, gesturing to the basket.

“Yes. Cod and mackerel.”

“Lovely.”

“Hopefully,” he said, moving past her.

“I left your sandal on your doorstep.” She put the lid on the box, picked up her bag, expecting him to continue the conversation, maybe invite her in.

“Very kind. Thank you.” He smiled, then walked away.

Abby watched until he disappeared inside his shack then set off home. She detoured past his boat. It had a name. Salvation.

\---

The sea was white horses galloping endlessly, the wind a playful spirit, whipping her ponytail into her eyes. Abby put her head down, grabbed hold of the offending hair, and walked quickly to the restaurant. Inside offered little relief. Blue plastic flapped angrily above the hole in the roof and against the windows where the new glass would be. She tacked a loose section to the old frame.

Hands on hips looking around. This room, the dining room, floorboards rickety, plaster peeled and damp. It smelled of sawdust, and fish, and something sweaty, mouldy, like old cheese. Wires poking through everywhere, hanging limply, connected to nothing. Despair tried to settle in her stomach which lurched as though she was in a boat on a rough sea. She put one hand on the wall and another on her belly to steady herself.

In the kitchen a similar story. The men had fixed the floor here, but the walls were stripped back to timber studs, the drywall stacked where the cooking range should be, rolls of insulation standing on end like rounded haybales.

“Keep it simple, keep it simple, one job at a time,” she chanted.

The windows were coming in ten days and only one new frame for them to fit into had been made out of the three needed in the dining room and four in the kitchen and office. The wood for the others was stacked against the back wall. She was going to have to make them herself.

She pulled out a tape measure and tried to measure up the one that had already been put in place to form a base measurement. She had to get the stepladder out to reach the top and it was hard to dangle the tape and keep it straight. An accurate measure was going to be impossible. She went outside, found a rock, placed it over the metal thing at the end of the measure and against the frame. Then she climbed the ladder again, pulling the tape out slowly. This worked better, and she was using the technique against one of the other windows when there was a knock on the door and it creaked open.

She looked across. It was Marcus. He was in a red walking jacket, a black knitted hat on his head.

“Hi,” said Abby, surprised to see him.

“Hope you don’t mind me calling in. I was passing, saw you were here.”

She wasn’t sure how he could have seen her unless he’d pressed his nose right up to the glass in the door, but as she’d stared into his window twice now she couldn’t very well call him out on the same behaviour so she simply nodded. “I’m trying to make a start.”

“Looks like there’s a lot to do.”

“Yes. I’ve got windows coming in ten days and I need to make the frames.” She was still standing on the stepladder and although it was nice to be able to look down on someone for a change it was starting to make her feel wobbly. She climbed down, stood in front of him.

“You’re a carpenter as well as restauranteur and artist?” he said, a mocking admiration in his voice.

“No, but I can’t get anyone to help and I can’t stop the shipment, so I have no choice but to do it.”

He appraised her silently, betraying no hint of what he was thinking, then looked around the room. “I’m a carpenter.”

“I thought you were a doctor,” Abby replied, her heart thumping at the realisation that he might be about to offer his help but unable to resist teasing him in revenge for his comments to her.

“I’m a lot of things, like I said.”

“And?”

“And I’ll help you, if you want.”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. What choice did she have, and he seemed harmless enough, despite that something she couldn’t put her finger on. “You’re not afraid of the curse or whatever it is the other villagers don’t like?”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

“Thank you,” she said, the words rolling out on a sigh.

“I’ll go and get my tools,” he said, turning towards the door.

“You’re going to start now?”

“I don’t think there’s time to waste, is there?”

With that he was gone, returning half an hour later with a large black tool bag slung across his back. He put it down, took off his hat and his jacket, revealing a different sweater, this one dark green.

“Is there tea?” he said.

“Yes. I’ll make it.” She went into the kitchen, made him a tea and herself a coffee on the camping stove. There was water at least, from a spring on the hill. She returned to the dining room. Marcus had set up the work bench, was laying out his tools.

“Thank you,” he said as she handed him the mug.

“Will you show me everything you do? I want to learn.”

“You can be my apprentice.”

“Thanks.”

They sipped their drinks, both looking at the windows, contemplating the task ahead.

“We’ll need to strip out the old frames first,” Marcus said.

“I figured we could measure them while they’re in place then we’ll know what size to make the new frames.”

“Presumably the glass that is coming will have been designed to fit the new frames, so there should already be measurements.”

“Oh,” said Abby feeling stupid. Of course the windows had already been measured.

“I like your tactic of securing the bottom of the tape. Very ingenious.” He nodded towards the measure which was where Abby had left it.

“I was struggling to keep it straight.” She knew he was trying to make her feel better. It was kind of him, but she was still cursing her stupidity.

“Do you have the plans for the renovation?”

“Erm, yes, the men had them. They must be around somewhere.” She rummaged through a stack of papers and other items the men had left and found the design. She handed it to Marcus who perused it while he drank his tea.

“I think I understand it,” he said.

She didn’t expect him to say anything else but he pushed it towards her across the work bench, pointed out the windows they were going to work on, explained how they would make the new frame fit the existing wood which had warped over time with the sun and sea and salt.

After their drinks they removed the blue plastic from one of the windows. The wind rushed in, blowing sand and grit into the air and Abby’s hair into her eyes again.

“Don’t you have a hat?” shouted Marcus over the roar.

“Not with me.”

He put his on her head, tucked the wild strands of her hair beneath it. She smelled woodsmoke and something with a hint of spice. His styling gel maybe.

They got to work, prising off one side of the old frame with a crowbar. The nails refused to come with it; instead they slid through the wood with a painful squeak like fingernails scraped down a blackboard and remained sticking proudly out of the studs. Marcus showed her how to lever them out without damaging the rest of the wood and that became her job while he continued with the more destructive work.

When the frames were out, they had another drink break, sitting on the floor amidst the dust and wood splinters, nursing their mugs for warmth.

Marcus wasn’t much of a talker while he worked, so Abby took the opportunity to question him. “Is this your trade, carpentry?”

“No. It’s more of a hobby.”

“Oh, but you know what you’re doing?”

“I guess time will tell,” he said, and then he smiled when he saw the concern on her face. “Don’t worry. You’ve seen my shack. It was worse than this when I first moved in.”

“And you did that all yourself?”

“Yes.”

“So you can do plumbing and other things?”

“Is that a hint?”

“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

He blew on his tea, a long, slow breath full of contemplation. “I don’t need payment,” he said.

“Of course you do! I have the money. The men were paid on a weekly basis, so I haven’t lost out.”

“You’re a chef?” he said, looking at her coolly.

“Yes.”

“You cook what I catch once a week and we’ll call it even.”

“That’s...” Abby didn’t know what to say, hadn’t been expecting that answer at all.

“A bargain?” He looked satisfied to have rendered her speechless. Who was this man? What was he getting out of this? It seemed churlish to ask him when he was being so generous, but Abby couldn’t let it go that easily.

“Don’t you have other things to do, like whatever it is you do for a living?”

“I’m not working at the moment, but as you’re curious, when I do work, I teach.”

“Woodwork?”

“Lots of things.”

“Of course, you said you were a lot of things.”

“It’s how you have to be around here. Most people do more than one job.”

That was true. It was a hard life. Poor access, few people. A lot of jobs would be shared around out of necessity and for the money. Marcus mustn’t need money if he was able to work for free. Why was that?

“Time to get going,” he said, putting down his mug and easing himself up off the floor. “I’d like to get two frames in today then at least this room will be ready.”

Marcus brought the long pieces of wood to the work bench, laid them across. “Measure twice, cut once,” he said. It involved angles and set squares and mitre joints. He was methodical. Head down, close to the wood. Long, slim fingers dragging the pencil neatly across.

He used his thumb as a guide for the saw, which seemed at one with his arm and his body, like an extension of him. They were graceful, his movements, a lover’s touch. “Don’t waste energy, make full use of every stroke,” he said. He blew gently into the cut to keep it clean. Sawdust danced in the air. He made Abby pull her sweater up over her mouth and nose but didn’t bother himself.

“Shouldn’t you have goggles?” she said.

“Nah,” he replied.

There were motes of sawdust in the corners of his eyes when he’d finished, the dust of it in his hair. Abby held the wood against the old strut, checking constantly with the spirit level. Marcus stood behind her, nailing it in place. He stepped back afterwards, satisfied with the work.

“Your turn,” he said, fetching another piece of wood. “Measure twice.”

“Cut once. I got it.”

She was meticulous too, had a surgeon’s precision with tools from her long experience with knives. Her cuts were neat. Marcus hummed his approval. She installed the frame this time, standing on the top step of the ladder, hammering, blood draining from her arm as she held it above, Marcus with an apologetic hand in the small of her back to keep her steady, his knee pressed against the wood.

“An excellent job,” he said when they examined it afterwards. “You’re a natural.”

“Chef’s skills and stubbornness,” replied Abby, satisfaction with herself and the job they’d done making her warm.

“All anyone needs in life.” He tacked the plastic back to the walls and a relative silence descended.

“Do you want me to cook for you tonight?”

“I thought Saturday, when we’ve finished the windows. I’ll go out in the dory first light.”

“Okay,” she said.

He was casual the way he spoke, like it was an everyday arrangement. Maybe it was here. Maybe people paid in different ways for services rendered. At home in Toronto most people would consider cooking for someone else a date, especially if they weren’t a friend first. Did he... was he arranging it like that, or was she reading things into it? Marcus was tight lipped, inscrutable. It was impossible to tell.

It didn’t matter what he thought in the end. She didn’t want a date, wasn’t ready for that kind of thing. Not even after two years.

Marcus tidied up his tools. Abby swept the floor even though they would make more mess tomorrow. Old habits. You didn’t leave a dirty kitchen, no matter how tired you were or how late it was. Outside the wind was squalling. Abby went to remove the hat, but Marcus put his hand on her head, pulled it back down.

“Bring it tomorrow.”

“Thank you for today.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.” He hurried down the path to the beach. Abby went the opposite way.

In her house she took off her jacket and boots in the hallway, removed his hat. She stood with it in her hands, then brought it to her nose. There was a hint of him beneath the woodsmoke, a driftwood scent she’d got when he was standing behind her fitting the frame. She hung it on the hook, shut the door as she went into the living room. She lay on the sofa, too exhausted to cook or read or do anything. Her arms ached from the sawing and hammering and holding the wood above her head. She felt satisfied with the job they’d done, and that things were finally moving. Marcus was an unexpected find, like the sunstar on the beach. She’d enjoyed the day, learnt a lot, but every moment spent with him raised more questions. Was she crazy putting her faith in him when she knew so little about him? Her brain was too tired to think about that or even to care. In her hour of need he was there, and that was all that mattered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby hears something about Marcus, and keeps her promise to cook for him. Part one.

“Some cold out, wha?” Mr O’Dowd, the shopkeeper. A bulky man in his sixties with once red hair now sandy, and dark brown eyes. He had a white beard and whiskers. He reminded Abby of a fox. He was sly as well, like the animal was purported to be. Were foxes sly, though? What made people give them that reputation? They hunted and survived that’s all, nothing sly about that. Mr Sly Fox O’Dowd on the other hand deserved the epithet. He was a gossip, as was his wife. Gossip was lifeblood in villages like this, which was fine. Everyone needs something to do. Trouble was he liked to embellish, make it juicy, until there wasn’t even a kernel of truth from the original story.

“It’s been cold a few days now,” said Abby, taking a basket and hunting the shelves.

“Aye, summer begone, I thinks.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Ow ya gettin’ on?”

“I’m fine.” She moved to the end of the first unit of shelves, stayed there a minute, enjoying the respite its shelter gave her from the sly fox’s gaze.

The shop was small, the aisles narrow, crammed floor to ceiling with boxes and teetering can towers. Beer and dog food mainly. Things a man can’t live without apparently, unless the dogs drank the beer and the humans ate the dog food. Abby went to the fridge, parted the sea of cheap lagers and found a reasonable bottle of French white at the back. It wasn’t reasonable in price, but everything here cost ten times more than in the rest of Canada. In her restaurant she was going to serve local beer and wine. There were a few craft brewers in the Maritimes and decent wine producers in Ontario. She was determined that as much as possible would be locally produced.

She skirted the next aisle, went to what passed as a delicatessen. There was couscous and mustard, pickles, capers, lemons, herbs and spices. She had to prepare for the meal she was making for Marcus, but she didn’t know what he was going to land, so she wanted a good selection. At least the store had plenty of ingredients for fish. It was the main food eaten around here.

At the counter and Sly Fox commented on everything Abby had put into her basket.

“S’ppose you have to go on in out of it now, b’y?”

“What do you mean?” said Abby reluctantly. She should have just nodded and agreed but she’d been brought up well and a general politeness was ingrained.

“Well all the problems you got. No one working for you. You’ll be off away.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said defiantly.

“Oh?” He scratched his belly, his stained t-shirt rising to show whorls of wiry red-grey hairs around his belly button. Then he picked up the fresh herbs, put them in the bag. Abby decided to wash everything when she got home, cans and boxes included. In bleach maybe.

She didn’t reply to him because she knew from experience that he would twist her words. The provisions had been stuffed into paper bags and Abby gathered them into her arms.

“Thank you, Mr O’Dowd.” She got halfway to the door when he spoke.

“Ow’s the teacher gettin’ on?” he said, waiting until she’d turned to look back at him to smile slyly.

“Good day,” said Abby, determined not to give him an inch.

“Crooked as sin that one,” O’Dowd said as she opened the door.

She let it close hard behind her, the bell jangling harshly. What did he mean crooked as sin? He obviously meant Marcus. News of him working with her in the shack would have been around the cove two seconds after he stepped through the door. There was nothing crooked about Marcus, nothing sinful. Was there?

\---

Saturday, and the clouds were thick and grey, rolling across the sky like the boil on a pan of water, pushed by the strong wind. A storm was brewing, the first Abby had seen and a big one according to her neighbour earlier. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, the rush of her veins, a potential energy waiting to be unleashed.

“Beautiful day!” said Marcus as he stripped off coat, hat, and gloves.

“I think it will be interesting.”

“You’ve never seen a proper storm up there in Toronto.”

“So I keep being told.”

She examined him as he arranged his tools. She couldn’t see anything crooked about him. He was like the rocks on the beach. Strong, steadfast, holding a quiet reserve, a patience against the vicissitudes of the tide. He was also unknowable like a rock. Had given little away about himself despite her gentle probings during their breaks. Rocks didn’t crack if you poked a finger at them. You had to go hard, hit them with a hammer. Maybe tonight she’d try and split him open, see what sins poured out.

“I was hoping for lobsters, but my pots were empty,” he said, straightening up and putting his hands on his back, stretching.

“Eh?” said Abby, whose imagination had travelled from hammering him on the head to gutting him with her fish knife, a black blood flowing out of his belly containing all his secrets. A metaphorical gutting, she said to herself, mainly to absolve herself from arousing those images. Since her husband died her thoughts had often turned macabre. It was natural she supposed, after what she’d seen.

“I went out in the dory like I said, but I only got cod today.”

“I love to cook with cod. I picked up a few ingredients yesterday that will go perfectly.”

“I can’t wait.”

They had two window frames left to do, the ones for the small office, and by lunchtime they’d finished them.

“I’m going to check the roof after,” said Marcus, brushing crumbs of his homemade bread from his sweater. 

“Won’t that be dangerous with the wind?”

“That’s why I want to go up there, make sure it’s all battened down.”

Abby footed the ladder while Marcus climbed up onto the roof. The wind gusted, and Marcus was slight of frame despite being tall and strong and she imagined him blowing out to sea like a stoic Mary Poppins, looking down on her poker-faced. “Just checking the clouds, Abby. I’ll be fine,” he’d say. She laughed, and luckily that was the only thing the wind took away.

“Your place or mine tonight?” she teased when they were back in the shack clearing up.

“Mine, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. It’s your payment after all. You get to decide how to spend it.”

“Do I?” he murmured. His muddy eyes fixed on her. How many people had been sucked in by them? If she dived in herself would she find their forlorn remains? Better to stay on firmer ground.

“Within reason,” she said, putting an end to the flirting or whatever it was. She’d started it, God knows why.

A subtle raise of his eyebrows indicated amusement perhaps, although as usual it was hard to tell what he was thinking.

“What time?” he said.

“Six should give me plenty of time to prepare. Unless you eat earlier.”

“Six is fine.” 

\---

Because of the coming storm, darkness had fallen early. Whatever sliver of a moon had risen was veiled by the clouds. Abby navigated down the slope and onto the beach by torchlight, the rocky shore a lunar landscape in the white light. She could taste the salty sea, droplets of it whipped into the air by the wind, dropped onto her face, into her eyes and nose and mouth.

Marcus’s shack was a beacon, a refuge ahead. She was careful crossing the rocks, bridging the crevices to provide grip, dodging the seaweed. He was there at his table as she passed the window. She rapped gently on the glass and he jumped, turned. She pressed her face closer in case the light in the room blinded him to her.

“I thought you were a ghost,” he said when he let her in. He was sans sweater for once. Black t-shirt, skin of his upper arms taut, biceps firm.

“Do you see many here?” She was joking but he didn’t smile.

“More than you’d think.”

He took her jacket and hat, hung them on a peg next to his, showed her to the kitchen. It was a small area, not much more than a galley, and it was simple but extraordinary. The units and the shelves were handcrafted from salvaged wood, stained the colour of warm honey. Each piece was designed to highlight its natural lines, its elegance, and its flaws. It had clearly been a labour of love.

“This is beautiful,” she said, running her hand over the curved worksurface, tracing the grain, fingering the knots and bobbles along the edge.

“Thank you. Hopefully you’ll find everything you need, but feel free to rummage.”

“I will.” She set her bags on the counter, took out the ingredients, arranged them neatly in order of when she would need them. Knife set unrolled, smoothed out.

Marcus leant against the wall, arms folded, his eyes tracking her movements.

“Are you my apprentice?” Abby said when he showed no signs of leaving.

“No. Just observing.”

Abby opened the fridge, found the fish. It was a beautiful piece of cod. Green-brown, mottled, heavy. She got to work, descaled it, gutted it, cut out the cheeks, put them to one side, filleted the rest, got lost in her task.

“What are we having?” said Marcus, startling her.

“Cod cheeks in a capers and lemon butter sauce for starter, and then a fillet baked with parsley sauce and lentils. I’ll make a stock with the rest and you can use that for whatever.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“Should be.”

“This is the kind of thing you’ll serve in your restaurant?”

“A lot of seafood, yeah. I make a mean fish stew. But also wild meat, and vegetarian.”

“I take it you’ve had restaurants before?”

“I had my own in Toronto for a couple of years, before that I was head chef at Auberge du Pommier.”

“Wow!”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Yes. That’s very fine dining.”

“I love French cuisine, but here I want to be more eclectic, take my inspiration from whatever is local and seasonal, and probably English and Irish foods given the history of the people.”

“You’ll be relying a lot on tourists.”

“I plan to simplify the menu in the winter months, make it more affordable, cater to the locals. There’s a sizeable population within a couple of hours drive of here and from the island.”

“It’s a bold decision to come here and do a venture like this.”

“It hasn’t exactly gone to plan so far,” Abby said with a strained laugh.

“What made you decide to do it?”

Here it was, the inevitable question. She had a set answer which she trotted out to people she had no intention of having a conversation with or she didn’t trust not to spread her story all over the Maritimes. Marcus wasn’t like that, but she still wasn’t sure she wanted to drag up the past.

“I wanted a new challenge, and a change of scenery.”

“It’s certainly that.”

“Yes.” She thought he’d be satisfied with her answer but apparently not.

“You had your own place, though, in Toronto. Was that not enough of a challenge?”

Abby turned to look at him. A wry smile broke out on his face.

“Are you going to gut me with that?” he said.

She glanced down, saw she was holding her knife, pointing it at him. The images she’d conjured up when they were in the shack came into her mind, making her face warm.

“No. Sorry.” She put the knife on the counter. “I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours,” she said.

Marcus contemplated her silently for a moment. “Seems fair,” he said at last.

“We’ll need wine. I brought some.” She opened the fridge and took out the bottle. “I take it you drink?”

“I have been known to imbibe.”

Abby handed him the bottle. “Starter won’t be long, so...”

“I’ll get prepared.”

They sat at either end of the table in the living room, the model of the village pushed to the back. Abby examined it as she ate her cod cheeks. Everything was made from natural materials and it perfectly mimicked the landscape, the shore and the sea. The houses were exact replicas from what she could remember of their colours and shapes and positions.

“That really is detailed. So accurate.” She peered closer, looked at her shack. It was in the dilapidated state it had been when she’d bought it. She pointed her knife at it. “You’ll have to update this soon.”

“I will when we’ve made a material difference.”

“I think we’ve made a big difference already.”

“We have.”

“You know what’s missing though.”

“What?”

“People! It’s deserted. You need Mrs Morgan down at the harbour and Foxy in the store.”

“Who’s foxy?”

“Mr O’Dowd. He looks like a fox don’t you think, with his beard and his whiskers and his red hair. Sly also.”

Marcus guffawed. It was the loudest sound she’d heard him make and it was startling at first, then it made Abby laugh as well.

“I hadn’t thought of it, but now that you mention it, I can see it yes!” He shook his head, still amused by her description.

Abby had a few flaws, most of which she’d readily admit to, and one of them was a tendency to be impulsive. When she was young she was told all the time by her teachers and her parents to think before she acted, but it was inside her, imprinted in the same way ducklings know to follow their mother to the water, and a cuckoo knows to evict its unrelated siblings from the nest. She acted on that instinct now.

“He said you were crooked as sin.” She stared intently at Marcus, watching for his reaction. He looked surprised, paused with his fork midway to his mouth.

“I’m sorry?” he said, frowning.

“Mr O’Dowd. He asked how you were getting on and then he said that.”

“And you’re wondering what my crooked sins are?”

“Well...” replied Abby, starting to regret the impulse. What did she expect him to say when put on the spot like this? The truth?

“I can’t say I’m without sin because that would be a lie, which is in itself a sin. In fact, there have been times in my life when I’ve sinned very, very badly.” The look in his eyes when he said this, and the way he sucked in his bottom lip made Abby warm of face and limbs.

“I, erm...”

“Do you think I’m crooked and sinful?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, deciding to brazen it out.

“So you’ve formed no opinion of me? Interesting.” He put his knife and fork down with a clatter onto his plate. “Well, I can’t deny it. Old Mr Fox is right. I am terribly crooked; everyone here knows it.”

“Oh.” Abby didn’t know what to do with this information now she had it. Probe further and risk hearing things she didn’t want to know when she was trapped in a room with him, or get everything out into the open?

Marcus took a deep breath as though he was readying himself to reveal his secrets, and then he smiled. “No, I can’t keep this up,” he said, chuckling. “Your face. I dies at ya.”

“You what?”

“It means I think you’re funny, you make me laugh. It’s the local vernacular, you must have heard it.”

“I’ve heard lots of things but not that.”

“Crooked as sin is slang as well. It means he thinks I’m very grouchy, difficult.”

“Oh!” said Abby, relief washing over her, quickly followed by a sense of outrage at how he’d strung her along. “I thought... you... I could kill you!”

Marcus’s broad shoulders heaved. “Your face, Abby, was a picture. Bless you.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “You’ve made my day.”

“I’m not sure you deserve your main course now.”

“Hey, you were the one maligning my reputation!”

“I was not! I merely asked a question.”

“Hmm. Come to think of it, you thought I was a crook since when, yesterday? And yet you still come here to my remote house in the quietest, darkest part of the village to be alone with me. Maybe you like danger. You hoped I would be sinful.”

“Oh, now you’ve reached the realms of fantasy.”

Abby stood, picked up their empty plates. She hurried to the kitchen, her face starting to burn, partly with embarrassment but also with something else, something he was stirring inside her with his talk of how sinful he was. He was teasing her, she knew it, trying to provoke a reaction, and he was doing that alright. It was a strange feeling, because she hadn’t felt anything for anyone in a long time, hadn’t wanted to. Now here was Marcus creeping up on her like the fog that was coming off the sea outside.

She buried her thoughts in bringing together her dish. Lentils herb scented, nutty brown, and sticky. Parsley sauce buttery. A touch of chili heat in her broccoli and almond salad. The cod fillets sizzled in the hot pan, crispy, golden skin, pure white flakes. She added butter, let it foam, bathed the fish with it as delicately as if it were a new-born baby. 

When she returned with the food, Marcus had topped up their glasses with wine.

“This looks amazing,” he said, the look he gave her as she set down his plate apologetic, contrite.

“I hope you enjoy it.”

“I know I will.”

Abby sat opposite him, watched him take his first few bites. She loved to do this when she could in the restaurant, get the customer’s visceral reaction to her food. It was her payment, her reward for hard work. He was an epicure, she could tell by the way he leaned into the food, and how his tongue anticipated the pleasure as he brought the morsel to his mouth. He chewed slowly, savouring it. His eyes closed briefly.

“Stunning!” he said when he’d swallowed another mouthful.

“Thank you.” She settled to her own plate, satisfied with a job well done.

“So, you said you’d tell me your story if I told you mine?” he said, nodding slightly as if to encourage her.

“I think my story is best left until after we’ve eaten.”

“Why, is it gruesome?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“Oh.” That wiped the smirk off his face, and it gave Abby a small amount of revengeful satisfaction after his teasing of her earlier.

“I’ve been in Red Fort Cove over three months now, but I didn’t see you here until that night.”

“I was in St. John’s. My mother was ill and in the hospital, and I stayed over there with her a while.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is she well now?”

Marcus shook his head slowly. “I never expected to bring her home.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“It’s fine. It’s part of life, no?”

“Yes. I lost my parents a long time ago. I still want to call my mum sometimes, you know. I miss that. I miss picking up the phone. And her hugs. They were the best.”

“You’d probably have liked my mum; she was a hugger too. I wasn’t really receptive to that.”

“You don’t like being close to people in that way?”

“It’s not that I don’t, I just find it hard. But I can pick up a saw. I can make you something, or fix something. I guess that’s more my way. I take it you don’t have a problem being expressive?”

“Some might say I do have a problem, as in I’m too expressive!” Abby laughed as a couple of memories surfaced. “I’m, erm, I guess I’m one of those people who lets everything out.”

“I’d kind of gathered that.”

“Hmm, yeah. You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

“The first time I went to the shack I peered through the window and I saw you standing on the ladder dangling the tape measure. I knew what kind of person you were then.”

“What did you think?” She was surprised by the track their conversation was taking. It was more personal than she’d imagined it would be, and Marcus more open.

“That you were determined and resourceful and probably bloody-minded.”

“Sounds about right.”

He took a long sip of his wine. “I’ve been away a long time, longer than the three months in St. John’s. I came back a year ago because mum started to get ill and needed me.”

“What were you doing when you were away?”

“Teaching and writing mainly. I moved around a lot. I’ve been all over Canada and up into Alaska.”

“A writer? What do you write?” Abby was more and more surprised by Marcus and what he was revealing about himself.

“I’ve been writing about my travels I suppose in a way. I’ve never felt like I belong anywhere or to anything and so I’m interested in places, what makes somewhere what it is. The nature and the people, the impact they have on each other.”

“Wow, that sounds fascinating.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, of course, and what better place to look into that than here.”

“I kinda realised that I think. I spent most of my life either desperate to get away from here or actually away, and then I was forced back because of mum and a lot of what I’ve been looking for is here, right where I was born.”

“I think that’s often the case for people. Life’s a journey, isn’t it, and usually at the end of a journey you come home.”

“I hope I’m not at the end of my journey,” he said, mock horror on his face.

“I didn’t mean the end of your life! This particular journey is over. Maybe something else awaits you.”

“Maybe.”

Abby felt a twist of something in her stomach again. It was how he said the word, like it held hope, and how his dark eyes drilled into hers.

“Why do you think you’ve never felt like you belonged?” That was a deep, personal question and she didn’t really expect him to respond.

“I’m not sure I’ve figured that out. I guess there’s just always been something missing, but I don’t know if it’s in me or in the place or what it is.”

“Maybe your expectations are too high.”

He shrugged, and she wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with her or dismissing her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby and Marcus continue their evening together and a storm is brewing.

They left the plates on the table and moved to the armchairs in front of the fire. Marcus put fresh logs on it, poked them into position. He opened a small cabinet and took out two tumblers, set them on the top, then picked up a whisky bottle, held it out to her.

“Want one?”

Abby hesitated. She’d already drunk half a bottle of wine with the meal although she wasn’t feeling the effects. Not yet. One wouldn’t hurt she supposed. She nodded.

Outside the wind howled, battering the side of the shack, making the wood rattle. The rain sounded like thousands of insistent fingers knocking at the glass, begging to be let in. She was glad of the fire and the cosy warmth of the room. She wasn’t looking forward to the walk home, short though it was.

Marcus settled into the chair opposite her, sipped his whisky.

“Your journey seems to have been the opposite to mine. You’ve left your old life behind,” he said.

Abby took a drink of the smoky liquid to give her time before answering. She hadn’t told her story in so long she wasn’t sure how it was going to make her feel to tell it to Marcus.

“I was married for a long time, since I was twenty, actually. I’m forty now.” She glanced at him to see how he reacted to the news of her husband and, if she was honest with herself, to her age.

He nodded; his bottom lip sucked in like he seemed to do when he felt uncertainty.

“He wasn’t a chef; he was an engineer. We met at university and we were never really apart again. We had our ups and downs, quite a few arguments. I’m not easy to live with sometimes.” She looked at him as she took a sip of her whisky. He was smiling.

“Crooked like me,” he said.

“Yes, I guess that’s fair, although I’m probably much more in your face than you are.”

“I can be roused to passion by the right person.”

Abby felt heat rising in her cheeks. It was the warmth of the fire, that’s all.

“I’ve been told I have a quiet anger which can be even more annoying,” he continued.

“Who told you that?”

“One of the few who’ve stayed long enough to find out.”

He really was in an expansive mood tonight. Was it the wine or the food or had he been in need of company, of someone to share things with, like she had? She didn’t really know what to say to his comment, so she moved on with her story instead.

“Four years ago I decided to strike out on my own with the restaurant. Jake helped where he could although cooking was never his thing, and he wasn’t practical, not like you. He was all drawings and plans and ideas. He designed the space and we got contractors in to bring it to life. It was going well, not reaching the heights I’d hoped but it takes time to get a restaurant off the ground in a place like Toronto. There’s so much competition.”

She paused, gathering herself for the next part. Marcus sat quietly. The fire roared and the wind blew. She sucked in a few breaths, gripped the tumbler of whisky tightly.

“Two years ago I was driving home late at night from the restaurant. We lived outside the city near one of the country parks and the road was pretty remote, lots of twists and turns. I went around a bend and came upon a wreck. It was recent, the engine was still running, exhaust fumes in the air. The headlights were on. It all seemed kind of ghostly and unreal. I knew it was his car straight away. It was... it’s hard to describe what that moment is like. You become kind of weightless and really, really heavy at the same time. Stuck in a moment of time. I couldn’t move for what felt like ages, just stared at it. When I finally managed to move it was clear he was dead. It wasn’t pretty.”

She stopped there, seeing the chaos of the scene again in her mind like she had for months afterwards, in the middle of the night when she woke screaming, or during the day sometimes. In line at the store, the sight clear as though she was looking at it. The smell of oil and fuel and blood. The windscreen smashed, Jake’s body pinned on the jagged edges of glass and metal.

“I’m so sorry,” whispered Marcus.

“It’s life, you know, like you said.”

“I didn’t mean... it’s not the same. My mum was elderly, there are expectations.”

“I think when you love someone it doesn’t matter when it is or how expected. It’s still a shock.”

“Yes, but still.”

Abby sniffed. “People expect me to cry when I tell them the story. They think I’m callous. I’m not. I haven’t cried at all since it happened and I think it’s got to the point now where I don’t know how to.” She looked up at Marcus. “I don’t know what that means.”

“People react in different ways. I haven’t cried either about anything. Maybe a skinned knee or two when I was a boy.”

“I do cry, though, usually. I am someone who lets out emotion that way.”

“Have you talked about it with anyone?”

“No. I’ve never really talked about it.”

“Do you think that’s why you’ve come here? To run away from it all?”

“Coming to the arse end of Canada to live literally at the edge of the land, you mean? What do you think?” Abby laughed, at herself rather than at what Marcus had said. She was a living cliché.

“Think of it as being on a new journey like me.”

“Can you be on a new journey if you haven’t finished the old one?”

“I don’t see why not. Call one of them a weekend excursion.”

“A weekend excursion into grief?” Abby laughed, and her laughs turned to hiccups. She put her hand on her chest, tried to hold her breath but it was hard because her amusement at what he’d said and his face when he realised how it sounded was too great.

“Oh, God, that sounded... I didn’t mean it like that!”

“No, I think it was perfect,” she said, her words coming out staccato because of her breathlessness. “Maybe grief doesn’t have to be tears, maybe it just is whatever it is.”

“Yeah,” said Marcus, still looking unsure. “It changes over time.”

“Ebbs and flows.”

“Yes.”

“Like the sea.” She drained the rest of her whisky and the burn of it down her throat quelled her hiccups.

After that she shifted the conversation to less painful things, told tales of horror from her restaurant experiences. Marcus obliged with stories from his trips. He was a good raconteur, had a quiet, deep voice that was hypnotic.

Later they washed the dishes together, tidied the kitchen. Abby gathered her ingredients, put them in her bag.

“I should go, but this has been... it’s been good to talk.”

“Yes, I didn’t really expect...” He grew silent.

“I know. Sometimes these things need to come out, and it’s easier to talk to a stranger I guess.”

“We’re not strangers anymore.”

“No.” She fastened her coat, pulled her hat down tight over her ears. Torch at the ready. Marcus opened the door. The wind nearly took it from his grasp. He held it open and they both peered out. There was nothing to see except cold, grey fog.

“I don’t know if you should...”

“I’ll be fine.” She stepped out and would have been pushed off her feet by a strong gust if Marcus hadn’t grabbed onto the collar of her jacket. He hauled her back inside, shut the door.

“Wow!” said Abby, gasping because her breath had been taken by the wind.

“I told you you’ve never seen a proper storm.”

“What are we going to do?” she said, although there was only one answer to that. It wasn’t up to her to make that decision though.

“You’ll have to stay here.”

She looked around the tiny shack. “Do you have a spare room?”

“No, but I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“You can’t do that, Marcus. I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“No, you won’t. I’m used to sleeping all sorts of places, don’t worry. Just hold on a moment.”

He disappeared into a room off the tiny hallway and Abby removed her jacket and hat and hung them on the rack. When he returned, he showed her to the room, which was tiny and spartan. The bed took up most of the space, handmade like the rest of the furniture. The headboard curved like a wave. Leaning against the far wall, almost blocking the tiny window were lengths of wood in different sizes and shapes. There was no fireplace, and no cupboards or drawers, just neat piles of clothes in the corner.

“This room’s a work in progress,” he said apologetically.

“The bed’s lovely,” replied Abby, which wasn’t a sentence she’d thought she’d be uttering that night or any night in the near future.

“The bathroom’s just next door, and erm, well I’ll leave you to it.”

“I really appreciate this, Marcus.”

“It’s fine; it’s par for the course around here.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“I hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“Night, Abby.”

He left, and Abby hurried to the bathroom so she wouldn’t disturb him later. Back in the bedroom she stripped to her t-shirt and underwear and got under the numerous covers. The pillows smelled of his spicy hair gel and it was so strange to be surrounded by another scent, never mind that she found it comforting. She didn’t want to think about that, so she pulled the covers high and tried to go to sleep.

When she woke, she felt rested, but her phone told her it had only been a couple of hours. The wine she’d drunk earlier had worked on her, and she had to get up to use the bathroom again. The wind was even stronger, whistling through gaps in the siding. It was freezing. She saw that the light was still on in the living room. She felt guilty for leaving Marcus in there in these conditions. She knocked gently, put her head around the door. He was awake, sitting in the armchair by the fire, wrapped in blankets, his woolly hat on his head.

“You okay?” he said when he saw her.

“This isn’t right, Marcus. You’re freezing!”

“I’m fine.”

“No. Come and get in the bed with me. It’s not a problem.”

“I, erm.” He sighed. “If you’re sure.”

“Of course. We’re both adults. I’m sure we can cope.”

He removed the blankets and followed her to the bedroom. It wasn’t until Abby was crawling back under the covers that she realised she was in her t-shirt and knickers and had practically just shown him her arse. Oh, well. This day couldn’t get any more surreal. She looked away while Marcus removed his pants and sweater. The bed dipped when he got in beside her and she turned towards him. He was little more than a shape in the gloom.

“I bet this isn’t how you imagined tonight ending,” she said, instantly regretting her choice of words. “Don’t answer that!”

The bed creaked as he laughed. “You were the one hoping for sin.”

She kicked him underneath the blanket.

“God, your feet are freezing!” he said.

“Behave yourself or I’ll use them to freeze other parts of you.”

He chuckled again. “I dies at you,” he whispered, and then he turned over, taking some of the covers with him.

Abby wrestled her half back and turned away from him, stared at the wall, warm all over, and not just from the extra body heat.

\---

When Abby woke the second time light had entered the room, split by the wood that partially covered the window into long shafts that fell across the bed. It was cold without any heating, but not freezing like it had been a few hours earlier. Abby turned over, looked for Marcus, but his side of the bed was empty. She put her hand on the sheet where he’d lain. It was still warm, so he mustn’t have been up long.

She eased out of the bed, picked up her jeans and sweater from the floor and put them on. She went to the bathroom and then the smell of hot butter led her to the kitchen, where Marcus was standing at the counter in t-shirt and boxers whisking something in a bowl.

“Morning,” said Abby, and he turned and smiled.

“Morning. Did you sleep well?”

“I did actually. Your bed is really comfy.” It still felt strange uttering these kinds of words to him and being in someone else’s house first thing in a morning. Abby had met Jake when she was eighteen and he’d been her only lover. She’d never had a one-night stand or a morning after the night before. She hadn’t now, but it felt like that in some ways.

“I’m making pancakes; would you like one?”

“I would, thank you. Is there anything I can do?”

“There’s orange juice in the fridge and the glasses are in that cupboard,” he said, indicating. “Take those into the living room if you want. Breakfast won’t be long.”

Abby put the glasses on the table then poked around the room while she waited for Marcus. There was a bookshelf in the corner and she perused it. It was divided fairly evenly between nature, travel and practical books about woodworking, eco-builds and self-sufficiency. His travel books were the philosophical kind by people like Henry David Thoreau. His book Walden looked well-thumbed and she opened it. Marcus had underlined huge scores of the book with a black pen.

There was a piece of card as a bookmark and a quotation was written on it in a small, neat hand.

> _If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away._

Oh, Marcus. He really didn’t think he belonged anywhere. What was in his heart and mind that made him feel so alone? She heard the whistle of the kettle and knew he wouldn’t be long. She didn’t want to be caught invading his personal things again, so she returned the book to the shelf, sat at the table and waited. He entered with a teapot and two mugs and then returned with two plates piled with chocolate chip pancakes.

“My god! How many have you cooked?” said Abby.

“Sets you up for the day.”

“I’ll be asleep again.”

Marcus poured them both a cup of the strong, black tea. Abby smothered her pancakes in maple syrup.

“I’m not sure you need a personal chef,” she said. “These are great.”

“I would LOVE a personal chef.”

“It’s nice to be cooked for.”

“Yeah. That was very special what you made last night. I really enjoyed it.” He cut a slice out of two pancakes in one go, forked the whole lot it into his mouth. It made Abby want to smile because there was always something attractive to her about people who enjoyed food and were unapologetic about it. They afforded her a living for one thing, and it was like an affirmation if she needed any that what she did was worthwhile and gave people pleasure.

“Thanks. So did I.” She ate her pancakes more demurely, because not everyone got the same kick out of watching other people eating as she did.

“The storm has passed. I went outside to get more wood and it’s beautiful out there now.”

“Amazing! I thought we were going to get blown away last night.”

“I think I have some patching up to do on the timbers. The wind got through in places.”

“Yeah, it was pretty cold. Are you still going to live here when winter kicks in?”

“That’s the plan. I have mum’s house so I guess if it gets too bad, I can stay there.”

“You’ll have to get some heating in the bedroom, Marcus. You’ll freeze to death.”

“It was pretty warm with you in there,” he said slyly. Teasing her again. Did he get a kick out of it or was there something behind it?

“You’d better get a dog then, sleep with that.”

“Hmm,” he said, grinning as he finished his pancakes. “So, what are you going to do today?”

“Go for a walk probably while it’s reasonable, do some reading. What about you?”

“I’m heading out on the boat, plan to spend the day just me and the sea.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It’s where I do all my best thinking.”

“Bet your thoughts are deep as the ocean, eh?” Abby stood, gathered the plates together.

“About as wide too.”

Abby smiled as she headed past him to the kitchen. She cleaned up, then put on her jacket and hat, got her bag.

“I’m definitely going this time,” she said as Marcus leaned against the door jamb and watched her.

“Same time next week,” he said. “I’ll order the storm.”

Abby gave him a wry look as she passed him and opened the door. “We’ve got work to do first.” She headed out, closed the door behind her so he didn’t have chance to make another quip.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the windows to be installed, and Abby's nervous.

The day before the glass was due to arrive Abby walked down to the harbour to check they were prepared for the shipment. The weather had been good since the storm Saturday night, blue skies and only a gentle breeze. She was on tenterhooks that it would stay like that for tomorrow. Her dreams lately had been ones of catastrophe where huge panes of glass swung against the wood in the wind and smashed into thousands of fragments that went spinning through the air like ninja missiles. In one dream they’d taken out most of the villagers who’d been standing watching the drama. Bodies on the ground, blood spurting out of necks, the rocks stained with it.

She really had to find a way to shut off this kind of thinking. Was it remnants of the accident and what she’d seen or was it this place? There was a feeling of portentous doom in the landscape no matter what the weather. It was vast and untameable. Abby stood on the rocks above the harbour, turned slowly in a full circle. There was the great sky with its invisible, feral winds, and the volatile sea that was governed by them and a fickle moon. Beneath her the rocks with their jagged edges, crevices and wet grasses ready to trip her and suck the heat and the life out of her.

God, she was morose! It was nerves that’s all, worries about tomorrow and how it would go. She couldn’t afford more windows and another delay if it went wrong. She headed down the path and onto the road. The tide was out revealing dark, sandy mudflats as she crossed the short causeway to the island. The harbour was tiny, consisting of a white-washed building with a green roof on the island itself and a series of wooden boardwalks leading out into the sea. The only boats docked were dorys and other small powerboats, the larger fishing vessels presumably out at sea.

Abby knocked on the door of the Harbourmaster’s office but there was no reply. She tried the handle, but it was locked.

“Flat cam today,” said a reedy voice startling her. It was the Harbourmaster, Mrs Morgan, a tall, thin, broom of a woman in her fifties, brown hair going to grey and bristly. You could sweep leaves with her if you turned her upside down. Her green eyes were ringed yellow like those of a cat. Abby always had to stop herself from staring at them whenever she saw her.

“Yes. I hope it stays like this tomorrow.”

“I ‘spect it will.”

“I just wanted to check that you were all set for my delivery.”

“Yes, b’y. Don’t worry, luv. You be here for eleven. We’ll do all the paperwork.”

“Thank you.”

“You still goin’ ahead with it then?”

“Yes, there’s no reason why not to.”

Mrs Morgan pursed her thin lips, made it clear she didn’t agree with Abby’s comment.

“That place won’t do you no good.”

“People keep saying that but no one will tell me why. What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a rotten place. Cursed.”

“Has something happened there? I’ve tried to find out but there’s nothing.”

“You should leave it alone, go back home.”

“I’m not going to do that. If you think you can drive me away with these vague allusions to fairy tales then you’ve another think coming.”

“I worries for you is all.”

The woman looked genuinely concerned and Abby’s anger subsided. “I appreciate that, but until someone gives me a good and honest reason why I can’t open my restaurant there I’m not going to stop.”

“You was warned at least.” Mrs Morgan folded her arms and stared fixedly at Abby.

“I absolve you of any responsibility for me,” said Abby. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She left, climbing back up onto the top path where she made her way home. Her neighbour, Mrs Byrne, an elderly woman with poor hearing but eyes sharper than an owl was out in her garden as Abby approached.

“That you I sees coming outta the teacher’s place Sunday morning, me ducky?” she said.

God, this place! “I got caught in the storm.”

“Ah, but you was there the evening, then?”

“I was discussing plans for the restaurant with Mr Kane.”

“I heard tell you was goin’ on with it.”

“Yes.” Abby wasn’t sure she meant she was going on with Marcus or with the restaurant and didn’t want to find out. She hurried up the path to her front door and was inside before Mrs Byrne could question her further.

\---

“You know we’re having a torrid affair according to everyone in the village?” she said to Marcus as they removed the plastic from the windows in preparation for the glass coming in a couple of hours.

“I’ve had affairs with all the eligible women in the Maritimes and some of the men,” he said, handing one end of a sheet to Abby. They folded it between them, added it to the pile. “I came back for a few months five years ago and had bedded ten people by the time I left.”

“Lucky you!”

“If only.”

“Slim pickings is it round here?”

“Slim pickings most places in my opinion.”

“Those damned high expectations of yours.”

He smiled as he handed her another sheet. “They’re not that high. I just need someone willing to live in a shack with no heating in the middle of winter in the arse end of Canada, as you call my beautiful home.”

“Mrs Morgan down at the harbour is eligible. She looks like she’d blow away in a strong wind but I’m pretty sure she’s tougher than she looks.”

“She’s nearly sixty!”

“So?”

“So, I’m only forty-two!”

“Already on the slippery slope, Marcus.”

“To what? Death?”

Abby shrugged, enjoying the outrage on his face. He wasn’t the only one who could tease.

“You’re only two years behind me,” he muttered.

“Ah, yes, but I’m not wind-blown and ruggedly aged like you.” She reached out, gave his cheek a pinch.

He grabbed her hand, held it, his fingers wrapped around hers. “I think you mean ruggedly handsome,” he said, leaning towards her, and then dropping her hand.

“If you say so,” said Abby, turning to neaten the pile of plastic even though it didn’t need tidying. It was just that her face was burning thanks to her pounding heart.

\---

Abby stood impatiently outside the harbour office while the huge supply ship docked. There were about twenty other people milling around waiting to collect whatever items they’d ordered probably weeks ago that were finally being delivered.

A handful of people walked off the boat, rucksacks strapped to their backs, cameras dangling at the front. They stood looking around, causing a couple of old men behind to bump into them. Tourists. This boat would be a lifeline for Abby when her restaurant was up and running, bringing tourists from Quebec City, Montréal and beyond. Over the winter months she would design the advertising, get the information out to the ship and all the hotels and pensions in the area. Crates and boxes were craned onto the dock and Abby edged closer even though she was under strict instructions from Mrs Morgan not to get too close while the ship was being unloaded.

At last she spotted a van driving down the gangway, panes of glass attached to the sides. Mrs Morgan stopped them, talking to the driver through the window. Abby hurried forward, ignoring the look of disapproval she got from the woman.

“Is everything in order, Mrs Morgan?” she said, glancing at the panes which seemed huge now they were here in front of her. Were the window openings really that big?

“Fine, luv. If you can sign here and here, you can be on your way.”

Abby signed where indicated then smiled at the driver. “Hi, I’m Abby Griffin. It’s not far, just up the hill and to the right.”

“You’d better jump in, sweetheart, in case we get lost,” said the driver, smirking at his companion. He had an English accent which luckily for him softened the impact of him calling her sweetheart.

Abby ignored his sarcasm. She knew she was micromanaging, but she didn’t care. These panes of glass had cost her a fortune and were the main features of the restaurant. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

“Sure,” she said, and she jumped in the passenger side forcing the man there to move over.

At the shack, Marcus was waiting, and he led the way inside. The men examined the newly installed frames, standing with hands on hips, pursed lips and frowns. One tall and thin, the other shorter and thickset.

“Hmm,” said the tall one, the driver. He got his tape measure out and the other man had plans with measurements and he called them out.

Abby’s heart was in her mouth because this was the moment of truth. If they’d got it completely wrong then all of this was for nothing. She watched as the men conferred, and then the driver turned to them, smiled at Marcus.

“Looks like you did a good job, mate,” he said.

“It’s mostly Abby’s work,” said Marcus.

The man’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling. “Oh. Well, good job, luv.”

“Thanks,” said Abby, “but I guess the proof is in the pudding.”

“We’ll see.”

They went out to the van and Abby followed them. Across the road a small crowd had gathered. A quarter of the village by Abby’s quick count. They stood in small groups, arms folded, watching, leaning towards each other when one of them whispered something. Abby smiled and waved.

“Beautiful day for it, isn’t it?” she said.

The men had big sucker things that grabbed onto the glass and they carried the first piece carefully inside. Abby rocked on her heels while they manoeuvred it into place.

“Be careful!” she said, her heart jumping into her mouth as the glass leaned towards one of the men as though it was about to fall.

She received a tut-tut in response. Marcus put his hand on her arm.

“They know what they’re doing.”

“I know, it’s just...”

“Why don’t we leave them to it?”

“And do what? No, I want to make sure everything goes okay.”

“Okay, well I think I’ll make everyone a drink.” He took orders and disappeared into the kitchen.

He didn’t return while the water was boiling, and Abby wondered briefly if he was happy to escape from her. She couldn’t blame him. She could be brusque when she was focused, she knew that.

When he did return with the drinks everyone stopped for a break. The men were intrigued by her plans for the space so she told them about the restaurant and showed them the computer design of the finished building.

“You’ve certainly got the view,” said the driver who she learned was called Paul. The shorter one, Matthew, didn’t speak much.

“Yes, that’s what attracted me to it. Are you from around here?”

“No, I’m from London originally but Matthew’s from Labrador, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Matthew without much interest.

“Do you know this area at all?” said Abby, always keen to pry information out of anyone who might know something about the shack.

“Some.”

“You know, the locals think this shack is cursed. Have you heard anything of that?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t know anything, Abby,” said Marcus.

“He can tell me that himself, Marcus,” said Abby, frowning at him.

“I don’t know about anything like that,” Matthew said, looking at Marcus.

Now Abby would never know if he was telling the truth or using what Marcus had said as a get out. Somebody here had to know something!

“Thanks for putting that guy off!” she whispered to Marcus when the men had gone back to work.

“I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. I doubt he’s lying to you, why would he?” he said, gathering the mugs together.

“This place really tries a person’s patience!”

They didn’t have any problems with fitting the glass until the third window frame, which was the one the original contractors had installed.

“This one’s not right, luv. It’s out at this corner, can’t fit it in.”

Abby and Marcus went to the window, examined it. The difference was a few millimetres if that, but there was no getting the glass to fit no matter which way they tried it.

“We can cut a small section out here,” said Marcus, using his pencil to mark lines on the frame.”

“Will that not affect it, like weaken it or something?”

“Nah. It’s only a few mill. Do you want to do it?”

“Something that important? No.”

“All you have to do is follow the line I’ve marked, take it slowly.”

“If I ruin it, Marcus.”

“You won’t.”

His faith in her was touching although ridiculously misguided, she thought. He must be crazy thinking she could do this.

“This thing ain’t gettin’ any lighter,” said Paul who was still holding the glass with Matthew.

Damn! This was more pressure than anything she’d faced in the kitchen and all she had to do was saw a tiny wedge out of some wood. Marcus gave her the saw and Abby got low to the ground.

“Hold the saw flat,” said Marcus, and he crouched next to her, his head almost touching hers, one steadying hand on her back and the other guiding her saw. “Slowly,” he murmured.

His proximity wasn’t helping. Abby took a deep breath, thought about filleting a salmon and what delicate work that was, and made the cuts. The wedge popped out with smooth, neat edges. Marcus picked it up, handed it to her.

Abby stood, brushed the sawdust from her clothes and watched with every muscle in her body tense as the men eased the glass into place.

“Perfect,” said Paul, impressed as he looked across at Abby. The relief she felt was overwhelming.

Marcus squeezed Abby’s forearm briefly. “Well done,” he said.

“Thanks.”

After that, the rest of the glass went in easily. They were smaller panes and in tighter areas, so she wasn’t allowed inside to supervise. She didn’t feel as much as though she needed to, as they’d had the biggest problem and overcome it.

Outside into greyer skies and a chill breeze. They’d had the best of the day and Abby was grateful. The crowd had thinned considerably as it was now early afternoon. She recognised Mr Cadogan who ran a bait and tackle store in White Rock, a relatively large town an hour’s drive from Red Fort Cove. He was with his two old cronies, Anders and O’Neill. Abby called them the three stooges because they always seemed to be up to no good. She waved at them. O’Neill tipped his felt cap in response but the other two didn’t acknowledge her. Miserable old men!

“What’s your next job, luv?” said Paul as he and Matthew loaded their equipment into the van.

“We’ve got the walls to insulate and the floor in the dining room needs taking up and resetting.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit hilly in there.”

“It’s not that bad!” Abby shook his hand and nodded at Matthew who had already got into the truck. “Thanks so much for everything today. It all looks wonderful.”

“No problem. I wish you and your husband a lot of luck!”

“He’s not my—” began Abby, but Paul was already shutting the van door behind him.

“Come on, wife,” said Marcus, grinning. “We’ve got some cleaning up to do.”

\---

“It’s everything I dreamed,” said Abby, standing at the far end of the room in front of the windows. “I’m so glad I went for the large panes of glass because the view is uninterrupted with so little frame.”

Marcus came and stood next to her. “It looks amazing. Perfect.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said, looking up at him.

“Of course you could. You did most of it yourself.”

“No. I was... ambitious to think I could watch some YouTube videos and know what to do. You’re the one with the skills. You knew exactly what to do.”

“It was a pleasure, and I enjoyed teaching you, you were an excellent student.”

“You were an excellent teacher.”

On impulse, she put her arm around his waist. She didn’t mean anything by it, not really. It was more an expression of thanks, recognition of a shared achievement. She was surprised when he put his arm around her shoulder, squeezed it.

“I thought you weren’t a hugger?” she said.

“There are always exceptions,” he replied.

Abby leant against him, comforted in the warmth of another’s embrace for the first time in two years. She didn’t think about what it meant, not right now, just wanted to enjoy it. Marcus didn’t make any other moves. They stood together like that at the window, the cove laid out before them, moody yet hauntingly beautiful.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus and Abby's day out together ends in an interesting way!

Sunrise, the moon like a blood orange in the blue-grey sky. The rocks bloodied too. Streaked, like something had slashed at them, the sharp claws of a great beast. The sand was wet and sucking from the retreating tide, footsteps leaving no trace, water oozing up to cover them. A strong breeze whipped at Abby’s hair as she crossed the beach, but she was prepared, had tied it in a long braid, and most of it was tucked beneath a navy-blue knitted hat.

Ahead, Marcus, a dark shape bent and twisting like a lone tuckamore. As she got closer, he stopped loading equipment into his dory, stood and stretched into a more familiar form. He turned, saw her approaching and waved.

“Looks like we’ve got the weather,” he said.

“Thankfully.”

He held out his hand and Abby gave him her bag, which he added to the rest of the gear.

“Will we float with all that in the boat?” said Abby, peering at two bags, a crate with unknown contents, and an array of fishing tackle.

“Only one way to find out.”

He grabbed Abby’s hand and helped her into the boat. She sat on the smaller bench at the rear. He pushed the vessel into the waves and jumped in, taking up the middle seat facing her. He didn’t fire up the motor, taking the oars instead and rowing.

“So, where are we going?”

“My favourite fishing spot, it’s not too far. In between two of the islands.”

The sea glowed like embers in the warmth of the sunrise, sparking when the oars sent drifts of it into the sky. Marcus rowed past the headland, Abby’s shack above them. It looked stalwart, protective. The windows reflected the blue and red of the morning.

“Doesn’t it look amazing?” she said to Marcus.

“It does.”

“Thanks for helping me with the shingles.”

“You’re weathertight now, safe and secure.” His smile held a sense of satisfaction and pride. She felt the same way. A month ago she’d been close to despair, now everything seemed full of the promise she’d felt when she’d first come east.

Gulls squabbled and squawked on the cliff as they passed. Black guillemots took off from their rocky perches and swooped over them. The air was acrid with the stench of guano. The scent of the sea was nothing more than decay, the foulest smells living things could emit, and yet somehow it transformed in the nose to become evocative, capable of summoning up the warmest of memories.

They moved away from the cliffs, slipping between islands and then out into the middle of a large cove, sheltered on three sides. There was little wind here, and the sea was still and deep.

“Okay, so we’re going to catch our lunch,” said Marcus, handing Abby a reel of fishing wire with a hook on the end.

“I thought you used a rod?”

“Not always. This is the traditional way.”

She’d fished before although it was a long time ago, and the way Marcus showed her was different. Cod jigging, he called it. They baited their lines with mackerel and dropped them into the water, letting them reel out slowly until Marcus judged they’d hit the bottom when Abby’s line went slack.

“Just tug on it now and then.”

Abby couldn’t help a smirk appearing on her face at the innuendo.

“Shut up, that’s the jigging part,” Marcus said, a faint blush of pink appearing on his cheeks. It was amusing to see he was capable of embarrassment. She refrained from making the obvious jokes because, well, it just wasn’t a road she was ready to take their conversation down.

They settled in the boat, jigging the lines, although the cod must be lazy because there were no takers.

“This is usually a good spot,” said Marcus.

“I can see why you do your best thinking out here,” said Abby. There was always something contemplative about scenery like this, especially when you were alone in it.

“I think the vastness of it opens my mind. You can go anywhere completely unhindered.”

“I was kind of thinking something similar the other day, but to me it’s more portentous, you know. Anything could happen but not necessarily in a good way.”

“You find it threatening.”

“Not all the time. I don’t know.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t know it yet, so it seems menacing. I’m not saying you’re not right to see it like that, some terrible things have happened here over the years, on land and sea, but growing up with it I guess you understand that and have a kind of peace with it.”

“It may be partly that, but... since Jake died, I’ve found that I think darkly about a lot of things. The images I get in my head, they’re not always good.”

“It can’t have been an easy thing to witness.”

“No, and I guess the suddenness of it. It’s hard to feel safe when you can literally drive around a corner and everything changes.”

“That’s true of everything, though, isn’t it? There’s always danger, we just have to calculate the risks and decide what’s worth it and what isn’t.”

“Yeah, I think that’s a big reason behind me moving here. I wanted to prove something to myself I suppose.”

“I think what you’re doing is bold and brave. You’re pretty incredible.” He nudged her shoulder with his, smiled warmly.

“I’m scared inside, though.”

“We all are.”

“What are you scared of?”

Lips pursed, bottom one sucked in again. She’d put him on the spot with that, made him uncertain.

“I’m scared that I’ll never find whatever it is I’m looking for, that I’ll forever be unsatisfied, there’ll always be this hole, this emptiness. Someone once said to me you can’t miss what you’ve never had but that’s bull. You can yearn for something even if you don’t know what it is.”

“Oh, definitely, yeah. I can understand that. Are you unhappy?”

Marcus tugged on his line, making it look like he was controlling some underwater marionette. “Sometimes, and then other times there’s days like this.”

Abby examined him closely trying to discern if he was feeding her a line, trying to hook her like he was the fish, but he was staring at the water. She thought him honest, teasing yes, flirty sometimes like she was, but fundamentally incapable of subterfuge. Her emotions swelled towards him like a wave. She wanted to put her arms around him, hold him, comfort him.

“Days like this make me happy too,” she said, and then a tug on her line drew her attention from Marcus.

“Fish on!” Marcus said, excitedly.

She reeled in her line, the weight of whatever was on the end of it making it hard work. A good-sized cod was hanging off it when she got it level with the boat. Marcus reached across, swung it towards him.

“Very nice,” he said approvingly.

\---

They beached on a small island. There was no one else around, in fact they’d only seen one other vessel, a larger commercial fishing boat sailing much further out along the gulf. Marcus had gathered small branches and logs and made a fire.

“Have you had a boil-up yet?” he said.

“I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never had one. It’s like a barbecue.”

Marcus grimaced at her turn of phrase. “A boil-up is not a barbecue, although we are going to cook today. It’s not just the physical thing, the cooking, it’s about connecting with the land and the sea, and your history. My dad brought me to this spot when I was a child and his dad brought him and there’s a long line that connects you to your past and the things that sustain you. It’s a break during a hard day, a time to sit and reflect and warm yourself.”

He took a silver kettle out of the crate, poured water into it from his flask.

“This is the most important thing, the brew.” He hung the kettle on a branch he’d positioned over the fire. “Do you want to prepare the cod? I thought we’d roast it on the fire. I’ve got some foil.”

Abby filleted the cod using knives Marcus had brought. She seasoned the flesh with salt and pepper, rubbed it with olive oil and Marcus wrapped it in the foil, sat it on top of a grill over the fire. He popped three teabags into the water.

“The tea has to be strong. You have to be able to stand the spoon up in it,” he grinned.

“I suppose coffee isn’t traditional enough?” Abby said, amused by his strict rules for the food and drink.

“Not in my family.”

The smell of the roasting cod was amazing, and Abby’s stomach was growling. Marcus handed her a thick slice of his homemade wholemeal bread on a stick and they sat on a log next to the fire, toasting it.

“I can see my dad and my mum now,” he said. “My dad always had to tend the fire, no one else was allowed. He would do the cooking as well. All mum had to do was sit and be served. It was the only time he ever waited on her.” He laughed fondly at the memory.

“Was he a fisherman?”

“Yeah. Started off for himself but ended up on the commercial boats. There wasn’t much of a living here back then. Still isn’t, but you’ve got the tourists. They’ll pay to go out on a fishing trip.”

“I was hoping to be able to use local people as suppliers, but I’ve had to sign up with the bigger boats.”

“They’re the only ones allowed to fish really, except for a couple of months in the summer.”

“Do you have a licence to fish then?”

Marcus’s shoulders heaved as he laughed silently. “Not exactly.”

“Oh! Oh, I see. You’re a bad boy, Marcus Kane!”

“I can be.” The way he looked at her then was definitely flirty. Abby held his gaze and then a burning smell forced her to look away.

“Oh, my toast!”

“It’s not so bad,” said Marcus, examining it. “We can scrape off the really burnt bits.”

He dealt with the toast while Abby poked the cod off the fire with a stick, opened its wrapper carefully. “This is ready!”

“Awesome.” Marcus poured the tea which looked more like stew into two red mugs and they sat on the log again.

“This is so good!” said Abby, flaking off sections of the meat which was a light brown from the roasting.

“Nothing better,” said Marcus.

Abby put some on her buttered toast, took a big bite. Heaven. The fire was warm at her back, the sea silvery in front of her, waves lapping gently at the shore. Marcus was right about the connection with the land the boil-up symbolised. It represented the fundamental needs of human beings. Food and drink and warmth. Time taken out of a busy day. Family. Tradition. It was immensely satisfying, easy enough to think that this was all anyone needed. It should be enough, really, but it wasn’t. Humans were never satisfied with the simple pleasures, always wanted something more, always striving.

It was good to take time out like this. Abby realised as she drank her bitter tea that she hadn’t truly stopped since Jake died. Everything had been dealing with that and then getting away, and then the restaurant, and all that entailed. She hadn’t taken time for herself or anyone else. Hadn’t thought to make the simple things satisfying in themselves.

“Are you okay?” said Marcus looking down at her. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“I’m fine. I’m just... I’m really happy in this moment.”

“I’m happy in this moment too.”

His dark eyes had glints of red in them from the firelight. He was so close, and she put her hand on his cheek, rubbed it with her thumb. His skin was warm and soft. She leaned in and kissed him there. She didn’t know why, it just made sense. He didn’t speak, merely looked at her, a slight crease in his brow. Probably didn’t know what to make of her sudden intimacy. Abby didn’t either but now the first step had been taken the second one seemed easier and she moved to his lips, kissed him softly, her hand cupping his cheek.

He returned the kiss, a quiet moan escaping him, his hand slipping into her hair, caressing it. Abby broke away after a moment, her heart thumping so hard she was almost breathless.

“I don’t know... I don’t know if I...”

“It’s okay. Small steps,” he said, his tone hushed.

His thumb was brushing stray hairs from her face, caressing her skin making it tingle and it felt good. It felt like something she wanted. It was hard, her emotions rockier than a boat riding the waves. It was too soon, but also it wasn’t. She’d thought she wasn’t ready, but maybe she was getting there.

“I care about you,” Marcus said. “I like you a lot.”

“I do too, I do. I feel the same.”

He let out a satisfied sigh. “That’s all I need.”

\---

They spent the evening with a couple of fingers of whisky each and a scrabble board. Marcus was hugely competitive and didn’t even try to hide his glee when he got a triple word score, or he beat Abby.

“Best of three?” he said when they finished the second game.

“What’s the point of that? You’ve beaten me twice.”

“Just giving you the opportunity to avenge your defeats.”

“Want to totally humiliate me more like. I’m not falling for that.”

“Is there anything you want to play?”

“Trivial Pursuit?”

“Oh, I don’t think you want to play Trivial Pursuit with me,” he said smugly.

“Oh, well in that case I damn well do! Bring it on!”

The thing Marcus didn’t consider about Abby was that she was in the hospitality business, and that involved talking to people, strangers often, making them feel welcome. She wasn’t always stuck in the kitchen. She considered it essential to read up on current affairs, know what people were watching or listening to even though she had little time for such things herself. She therefore knew a little about a lot of things. Science had been her favourite subject at school, history not so much. He might be the writer and the thinker, but she was practical and had a good brain for remembering facts.

She beat him easily, mainly because his entertainment knowledge didn’t extend much past Gordon Lightfoot and the television of his childhood.

“I haven’t watched TV in twenty years,” he pouted.

“Neither have I really, but I read things, Marcus. I keep up to date.”

“Pfft,” he said.

“Are you a sore loser?”

“Absolutely not.”

His face told a different story.

“You’ll get over it.”

He harrumphed again, and then he smiled. “I’ll get my revenge.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” She yawned, feeling tired suddenly, looked at her watch. It was only ten o’clock, but they’d been out since dawn. “I should get going.”

“Okay,” replied Marcus. He pushed himself out of his chair slowly.

Abby fastened her coat, pulled her hat over her head. “I had a wonderful day.”

“Me too.” He stood in front of her with an awkward smile.

Abby realised if she wanted to take this slowly then most of the moves were going to be up to her. She put her arms around him, rested her head against his chest. She felt him stroke her braid, and then his arms came around her, holding her to him.

“You’re a liar,” she whispered, looking up at him.

“What do you mean?”

“You give good hugs.”

He kissed her head. “Told you I can make an exception.”

Abby sighed, then pulled away. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday I guess.”

“You will.”

She opened the door, stepped out into a calm night. The moon was full and the quartz in the rocks was glittering in its light. She looked to her destination in the distance and something caught her eye. A light where there shouldn’t be one.

“What the hell!” she said.

“What’s the matter?” said Marcus, coming out onto the step to stand beside her.

“That’s my shack, right? There’s a light in it.”

“What?” Marcus shaded his eyes as though would help him see more clearly.

“Someone’s in my shack!” Abby set off at a pace, skidding over the rocks and onto the sand.

“Abby!” shouted Marcus. “Don’t go alone!”

She ran across the wet sand, splashing it up around her. She heard Marcus shout “Goddammit!” in the background and the slam of the door but she didn’t stop to wait for him. Someone was in the restaurant and she wanted to catch them in the act. She had to look down to negotiate the rocky section before the grassier path up to the shack and when she looked up again the light had gone out. Dammit!

As she neared the top of the path there came the panting of heavy breaths beside her, misting the air.

“What are you doing?” heaved Marcus. “You’re not going in there.”

“I am, and I think they might have gone anyway. The light went out.”

“They could be hiding. They might have seen you or heard you.”

“I’m still going in. We can’t stand out here all night, Marcus.”

“Fine, but let me go first. I have a torch.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know that, but I’m bigger than you, more of an obstacle if they try to escape. It’s purely practical.”

“Okay,” she said, not really believing his reasoning but she suspected he would physically block her entrance if she didn’t let him go first and all she wanted was to get inside.

Abby expected the door to be open if someone had broken in but it was closed and what’s more was still locked! That was strange. Marcus had his own key so he could let himself in and out when Abby drove up to White Rock for supplies and he used that now. He pushed the door open, turned on his torch and went in, Abby close behind him. The door opened immediately into the dining room and he shone the torch around. There were no obvious signs of an intruder. They went through to the kitchen and the two small rooms at the back. Nothing.

“There’s no one here,” said Marcus, relief in his voice.

“Someone was definitely here, someone with a torch like us.”

“I know. I saw the light.”

“How did they get in and out?”

“And what did they want? Nothing appears to be missing.”

He shone the torch around the kitchen. The rolls of insulation and the drywall were still lined up against the back wall waiting to be installed. The tools he’d started leaving rather than lug them back and forth every day were where he’d left them.

The dining room was empty because they were getting ready to take up the floorboards. Marcus shone the torch around anyway.

“Oh, my God!” said Abby as she followed the beam of light. “What the hell is that?”

On the wall at about waist height a message had been daubed in what looked like red paint.

_HELP ME!_

“Jesus!” said Marcus, moving closer.

Abby went up to the wall. The paint was dripping beneath each of the letters and she touched it tentatively. It was still wet. She brought her finger to her nose, sniffed it.

“Definitely paint,” she said, holding it so Marcus could smell it.

“Yeah. Where’s that come from?”

“I don’t know. There’s no paint here. What does it mean?”

He let out a long sigh. “It must be kids.”

He shone the torch further up the wall and Abby caught a glimpse of his face, which looked pale and drained even taking into account the torchlight. He was chewing on his bottom lip.

“How did they get in here? The door was locked,” she said.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“Like what? And even if we could explain how they got in here, why have they written that? What does it mean?”

“Just to mess with your head, I don’t know. Who knows why idiots do what they do?”

He didn’t sound convincing and Abby wasn’t about to let it drop. There was something happening in this community that no one wanted to talk to her about, Marcus included.

“What’s going on, Marcus? What’s wrong with this place? Why won’t anyone talk to me about it? Why won’t you? I know you know something.”

“Abby, it’s... it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing! Look at my wall!”

He switched off the torch and the moonlight illuminated the scene, making it seem even spookier. “There’s nothing we can do here tonight. Let’s get you home.”

“Will you tell me what the great mystery is?”

“There’s no great mystery.”

“It’s mysterious you just saying something like that all the time! There’s something, and I want to know what it is, however stupid or pointless you think it might be. This is my building. I have a right to know.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much, but not until you’re safe at home.”

“Fine. Good. Thank you.”

They left the shack, Marcus locking the door and double-checking it. The walk to Abby’s house was completed in silence and Marcus didn’t speak until he’d made them both a hot drink. He sat facing Abby on the sofa, one leg curled beneath him.

“This happened a long time ago when I was a boy. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “I’m listening.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus tells Abby what happened at Shack 309.

Abby settled back against the arm of the sofa, her mug of coffee warming her hands. Marcus took a sip of his tea, sucked in a deep breath and began.

“Most of the people in Red Fort Cove have been here since the area was first settled a couple of hundred years ago. That’s why everyone knows everyone, and nothing gets past them. A family name means something, good or bad, and often the reputation attached to a name passes down the generations, even if you’re nothing like your father or your grandfather. It’s just how it is.”

“Does your family have a reputation?”

He laughed. “Not really, no. My ancestors were all fishermen, hardworking, no nonsense kind of people. Quiet for the most part. My reputation for being crooked is all my own.”

“I have to say I don’t really understand that. You’re kind of quiet too, not particularly grumpy.”

“You’re seeing the best of me. I was the archetypal angry young man.”

“I see. Go on.”

“One of the families had a reputation that went all the way back to Ireland. The story went that the man was wanted for a series of murders in Dublin and managed to stow away on a boat coming here. He probably boasted about his killing spree when he arrived in Newfoundland so that everyone would know he was tough and leave him alone. It was every man for himself back then. Eventually his descendants moved to the Cove and continued the family business which was to lie, cheat, steal and intimidate. That family was the Blakes.”

“The people who owned this house?” said Abby, a shiver running through her at the thought of such people going about their cruel lives here, where she lived.

“And your shack, yes.”

“Oh, wow.”

“They were hunters and traders officially, and some of what they did was above board, licensed, declared to the authorities, but most of it was black market. If you wanted something, then you’d go to the Blakes. Seal, fish, wild game, fur trapping, moonshine. The shack was their place of business. They would process their catches, portion them up and customers would come to the small window that’s in your office. The door was always locked so no one could surprise them.”

“The shack isn’t exactly hidden, though Marcus. Surely the authorities could have caught them?”

“There’s only one road in and out of here as you know, and the nearest place with any kind of law was White Rock. The Blakes had family and friends all along the route and they’d use signals and all kinds of different ways. They’d know the authorities were coming even before they’d set off. Rumour had it there was a hidden compartment in the shack where they could hide the stuff they didn’t want to declare.”

Abby was amazed at what he was telling her. A hidden compartment? She was intrigued, had almost forgotten why Marcus was telling her this story. “How come you’ve never told me this before? I don’t know of a hidden compartment.”

“Most of this is from a long time ago, and I doubt there was a hidden anything, and we’ve seen no sign of it. Back then no local would have grassed on them and the authorities were probably just as corrupt. By the time I was a kid their operation was a lot smaller. The risks of being caught were slim.”

“Yeah, I can’t see how there’s anywhere hidden. I’ve had most of the place gutted. There’s nowhere to hide.”

“Exactly. It was just a rumour. So, when my father was a young man the Blakes were down to a son and daughter. The parents were dead and eventually the girl went off to Labrador City. That left William Blake, not the poet by any means, Bill to everyone. He was a few years older than my father and a meaner, more villainous man you couldn’t find. My dad used to say he would steal the eyes right out of your head and come back for the holes.”

That expression made Abby laugh. It created a perfectly accurate picture like a lot of the sayings she’d heard here did. Marcus smiled at her laugh.

“I could entertain you for days with things my mum and dad used to say.”

“I could definitely listen to that.”

“Another time, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Bill used to disappear for ages, sometimes for months, probably out trapping or getting up to mischief, and one day he brought a girl back with him. Her name was Aurora and she was a great beauty according to everyone. I vaguely remember her. She’d be older then, forties probably, but I know she had long brown hair and hazel eyes and was tall and slim. She was the talk of the town for months when she first arrived. It was soon disclosed that she was a certain kind of woman shall we say. A She Cat my mum called her. I didn’t know what that was, but it clearly wasn’t anything nice.”

“She was promiscuous?”

“A prostitute probably.”

“Did Bill know?”

“Well, that kind of has a bearing on this story. She already had one child when she arrived, a boy called Bellamy. I think he was five or six maybe I don’t know. A year later she had a girl, Octavia. Very striking child, dark hair, blue eyes, nothing like Bill.”

“Not his daughter then?”

“She could have been anybody’s. They said Aurora was friendly to half the men in the Maritimes, but then you know what gossip is. There’s probably only a kernel of truth to it. Maybe Bill knew about Aurora - in all likelihood it was him who put her out to work - but whatever the truth was, one thing was definite. That marriage was volatile. You could hear them arguing all over the village. Your neighbour would tell you, if anyone was talking to you about it. Aurora would have bruises, the children were rarely seen. Bill told everyone they were being home-schooled but I don’t know if that was the truth.”

“Didn’t anyone do anything about it?” said Abby, appalled at the images that were rushing through her mind.

“No. People didn’t back then, still don’t. They’ll gossip and talk but your business is your business. Nobody would interfere. If she’d asked for help maybe. If she’d come to our house, I’d like to think my parents would have helped her but I don’t know. She never asked and no one did anything.”

Marcus took a long draught of his tea as though he needed the time to gather himself. Abby had a feeling she knew what was coming next and part of her didn’t want to know it, but it was too late now.

“It was late September. I was ten and full of myself, but I remember mum saying to dad that no one had seen the Blakes in a while. I can still see the day now. The last of September. It was cold. Most of the summer had been unseasonably cold. The sky had been grey for so long I’d started to think it would never be blue again. My parents’ house is the one with the yellow siding and the grey roof a couple of rows along from this one and dad was home because there was no going out on the water. There was fog out at sea and it had started to roll inland, covering the beach and creeping up towards the village. I was playing a game with mum, Connect Four, and I was about to win a row when there was a shout from outside and then a huge scream. It was so loud and full of horror that I literally felt pierced by it. It made me double over, like I’d been stabbed in the stomach. My dad ran out and me and mum followed. A crowd was gathering outside the shack.”

“Oh, God,” said Abby, clutching her own stomach.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” Marcus said. He shuffled closer, reached for her hand and she gave it to him. He held it tightly.

“It’s okay. I want to know.”

“Mr Morgan, who was the Harbourmaster up until he died a few years ago, he was standing guard outside the door, wouldn’t let anyone in. My dad sometimes did work for the municipality in the winter months and he went up to him, kind of in an official capacity, asked him what had happened. ‘The children!’ was all he got out of him, so he went inside. I stood with my mum and waited for him to come out. It felt like hours but was probably three minutes if that. I’ll never forget his face when he walked back out of the door. He was white as the foaming sea, and his eyes seemed huge and dark. He was shaking, had to hold onto the handrail that was near the path back then. I felt sick looking at him because he’d always seemed so strong to me, so sure and steady. Afterwards I heard him telling my mum all about it and I understood why he looked the way he did.”

He looked at Abby, sadness and grief in his eyes. She nodded to encourage him to continue, squeezed his hand, her heart thumping so hard she felt sick.

“It was a terrible sight. Aurora and the children had been brutally killed. It turned out later they’d been stabbed. There was no sign of Bill. Obviously, people assumed he’d done it, which was a reasonable assumption to make given his violent history. The tale was that he’d found out the child, Octavia, wasn’t his and he’d killed them all in a fit of anger and revenge. There’s no basis of fact in this that I can tell. No one knows why he did it.”

“Did they ever catch him?”

“No. He’s never been seen since. He’s probably abroad, Ireland maybe. I suppose they have relatives there still. It was a couple of days before the bodies were found so he could have gone anywhere in that time.”

“Those poor children.”

“I know. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to be upset about that happening there. And after you told me about your husband I was glad I hadn’t told you.”

“I understand that now. I appreciate it, I really do. Why won’t anybody talk about it, though? Is that why they don’t want the restaurant opening in the building, because it’s like a shrine or something?”

Marcus sighed, shook his head. “It’s not that. The day after the bodies were discovered strange things started happening. The lights in the shack would flick on and off, and weird noises would come from there, like wailing sounds. Messages like the one we’ve just seen appeared on the walls. Sometimes they were names of people in the villages, other times random things. People thought it was the ghosts of the children out for revenge or looking to unveil their killer. Not long after that there were reports of other strange phenomena in the village– property being moved or stolen, doors locked when they’d been left open. People would come back from a trip to find all their doors and windows open, or music playing or a whole host of things.”

“Oh, my God, what was it?”

“Fertile imaginations and boredom. I expect the initial stuff around the shack was kids messing around and then once the ghost theory took hold it spread like a virus and everyone got infected. I think people just believed these things were happening or if they weren’t happening to them they felt left out and made it up.”

“This is unbelievable!”

“Small villages, Abby. People with too much time on their hands.”

“So, they don’t want to help me because they think there are ghosts on the property?”

Marcus shrugged in a what can you do gesture. “Probably, yes. They’re idiots. What you’re doing is just what this place needs. We can’t live in the past or let superstition rule us. I hope this won’t affect how you feel about opening your restaurant because I think you’re doing a wonderful thing. It’s good for you and it’s good for this community. They’ll come round eventually.”

“They’re clearly trying to drive me out, Marcus. What else could the writing be about?”

“You don’t believe in ghosts either, then?” he said, looking anxiously at her.

“No, not literal ones anyway. I understand how somewhere can feel haunted. It’s how I felt about our home after Jake died, and the restaurant. His presence was everywhere and that can be comforting I guess but it also becomes too much, stops you from moving forward. It was the same with having to drive past the place where he died every day. I always felt something, you know, got a shiver. It was just the knowledge of what happened there, the memory of what I saw, but I can see how people can take that and make it bigger than what it is.”

“I understand that, and I’m so sorry about what you went through. Here, though, it’s thirty years ago. It’s time to move on.”

“Exactly thirty years,” said Abby, thinking about the fact that the killings had been discovered on the last day of September which was only a week away.

“It’s just a date.”

“Yeah.” She puffed out a long breath. “That was some story!”

“I know. Is it a terrible shock?” He stroked the back of her hand gently.

“Yeah, I mean I feel really sad about what happened to Aurora and the children. It’s devastating to think about them dying there.”

“Too much?”

“I don’t know. It’s all spinning around in my head. I need to think about it I guess, let it settle in my mind first.”

“Of course. I’m here for you if you want to talk or you have any questions.”

“Thank you, and thank you for telling me the truth.”

“I should have told you earlier, but I just couldn’t bring myself to spoil everything.”

“You haven’t spoiled anything. I’m glad I know. Knowing gives me the power to deal with it.”

“I’m glad you feel like that.” He glanced at the clock. “I should go. It’s gone midnight.”

“You don’t have to go. You can stay the night here if you want.” Her heart thumped against her chest as she said this. It was bold after the kiss they’d shared earlier, but the prospect of being alone after what he’d told her didn’t fill her with joy, and she could use the comfort.

He looked surprised and then happy at her suggestion. “Do you have a spare room?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to sleep there, you could be with me. Like we did before. It might be nice, you know, to have someone here. To have you here.”

“I’m glad you asked,” he said.

Abby showed Marcus the bathroom and went around the house checking all the doors and windows were shut and locked while he got ready. He came out dressed in his t-shirt and boxers with his pants and sweater over his arm. She hurried past him clutching her pyjamas. He was hovering at the foot of the bed when she entered the bedroom.

“Which side do you prefer?” he said.

“This one,” she said, indicating the left which was nearest the door.

“Okay.”

They got under the covers at the same time and rolled to face each other. Marcus stroked the side of her face gently. “I’m so glad I met you,” he said.

“Me too,” said Abby, and she wondered if he’d not told her before about the Blakes because he didn’t want her to leave. He must be worried now that she knew. The thought made her heart swell. She leaned in, kissed him chastely on the lips. “Night,” she said.

“Night, Abby.”

He didn’t turn over and neither did she. She felt his hand searching for hers beneath the covers and let him grasp it and hold it. They gazed at each other until she couldn’t keep her eyes open a moment longer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby and Marcus find out more about the murders, and Abby makes an admission.

The following day was a Sunday, which normally Abby would have as a day off from the renovations of the shack, but after the events of the previous evening she was desperate to check on the building. Marcus had managed to detain her long enough to force some coffee and toast down her, but by nine o’clock they were standing outside the restaurant.

“It feels different now,” she said, one hand on the door handle.

“I know. It must.” Marcus had his arm around her shoulder and he squeezed her encouragingly.

“I think I might want to go in alone for a moment if that’s okay. I just want to, I don’t know, spend some time with it.”

“Can we check it first, just to make sure there’s been nothing else overnight?”

Abby agreed and they unlocked the door and went in. Marcus checked the kitchen and office while Abby stood in the dining room. Everything was as they’d left it the night before.

“I’ll go home and get changed while you do what you have to do,” Marcus said. “I won’t be long. Lock the door and don’t let anybody in.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Abby kissed his cheek and when he’d gone, she locked the door behind him, stood with her back to it looking out at the large empty space.

Three people had died in here, two of them young children. For some it might be difficult to imagine, but Abby’s mind showed her the mutilated bodies and all the blood. She could smell it, iron-tinged, putrid, decaying. It must have soaked into the floorboards. Was it these same ones? The ones that were warped and uneven. Was that the reason for their condition? She dropped to her knees, looked closely at the boards. Maybe there was a change here, a darkening. She traced the almost imperceptible line with her fingers, crawling around the floor in a wide arc. So much of it. She bent closer, sniffed the wood. Pine and old earth, a fishy odour. Was that old blood or a remnant of the activities that had gone on in here for generations?

She crawled to the writing on the wall, sat up so she was almost at eye level with it. The positioning was meant to suggest it had been written by a small child. She didn’t believe that, and Octavia would have been too young to write words like that, Bellamy too tall. He’d have had to have bent low to write it, and why would he do that? It was definitely the work of someone up to mischief. Someone whose superstitions about the building had lasted thirty years. It ruled out kids, whom Marcus suspected. This was a targeted attack designed to make her leave so the building could remain as it was.

Abby ran her finger over the letters. The paint had dried sticky, and her finger was stained red afterwards. She touched the paint with each of her fingers in turn, then pressed them to the wall above the words, leaving bloodied fingerprints. “I am here,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

Marcus’s voice roused her from an almost hypnotic state and she turned to look up at him where he was standing in the doorway.

“I think I know where they died. There’s a change in the colour of the boards there.” She indicated the area she’d examined earlier.

“Abby,” said Marcus with a worried frown.

“I’m fine, I just feel like I need to know. I want to know as much as I can.”

“I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you.”

“There must be newspaper clippings or something? I searched for the Blakes online when you first told me they’d owned my house but I found nothing at all, and I never read anything about murders in Red Fort Cove during my research into the area.”

“It was kept as quiet as possible and as you know, no one talks about it. It never got out of this area as far as I know. The nineteen eighties here were little different to the eighteen eighties. There was no internet and hardly any phones and things like this stayed here.”

“Is there a local library or records house or something?”

“No. I suppose my parents might have kept something if it was in the local paper.”

“Do you think there might be something at the house?” she said, hope rising.

“I haven’t been through any of mum’s stuff since I came back, but there might be I guess.”

“Would it be too painful to take a look through? It’s okay if it would be.” Abby felt bad asking him, but this was inside her now, like a quest. She had to learn as much as she could and then she could make an informed decision about her future here.

“No, it’s not painful. I haven’t sorted it because I was busy working on my place and then you came along.” He smiled and Abby relaxed.

“Can we maybe do that then?”

“Yes, we can, but I’m worried about why you want to. I don’t want all this to upset you or spoil your time here.”

“Marcus, you’re sweet and I love that you care about me but my life here was changed long before I met you. I already knew I wasn’t welcome, and now I know why, and the fact that it isn’t personal is actually a good thing. I’m curious, that’s all. Let’s just see if there’s anything and then that will be it.”

“Okay.”

\---

The house Marcus grew up in was typical of the houses in Red Fort Cove. Single storey, compact, painted wood siding – bright yellow in this case. In the carport an old Ford 250 pickup truck, red and rusty.

“Is that yours?” said Abby.

“Been all over Canada in that. Slept in it more than a few times.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Not sure it’s got many more winters left in it, like me.” He chuckled as he put his key in the door and went in.

The inside of the house didn’t look as though it had changed since the nineteen fifties. Yellow walls, parquet flooring, beige leather sofa and chairs, embroidered cloths on all the side tables, in fact anything that had a surface. The walls were almost completely covered with family photographs, frames matching the era portrayed. Gilt with twisted knots around the black and white ones, black plastic around pictures of people with perms and clothing that was mainly shades of brown, wood around the more recent ones.

Abby examined them closer. Marcus was obvious, a thin, rangy kid with brown hair and an asymmetrical fringe, dark eyes and a nose his face hadn’t yet grown to accommodate.

“Look how cute you were!” she said, pointing at one of him in a blue sweater, a scowl on his face. He looked to be around ten.

“That pretty much sums me up back then,” he said.

“Bless you. Aww.”

He tutted at her assessment, but he looked pleased nevertheless. Abby followed him into the kitchen which was dark wood cabinets with wrought iron handles in some kind of serpent design. The cooker was one of those old ones with the grill above it and a warming oven at the bottom. Bizarrely there was another leather armchair in the small space.

“There should be tea somewhere in here,” said Marcus, opening a couple of the cupboards. “No coffee, though.”

“Tea’s fine. What’s with the armchair in here?”

“Oh, yeah. This was the warmest room sometimes when the oven was on, which was nearly all the time because mum was a prolific baker. Dad would sit in here and watch her, or I would if he was out at work.”

“Is that where you get your baking skills from? All your homemade bread and stuff.”

“I was something of a miracle baby. They didn’t think they could have children because nothing happened for years and then I appeared out of the blue. I was the only one. I was therefore son and daughter to my mother, don’t laugh! She taught me baking and a lot of the practical skills I know actually.”

“I wouldn’t laugh at that. I think it’s lovely.”

They took their teas into the living room and Abby settled on the sofa while Marcus opened a cabinet beneath an old TV and pulled out a box and a bunch of loose papers.

“This is where mum kept a lot of sentimental stuff.”

He sat on the sofa and set the box and the papers between them. He picked out a few photos, skimmed through them, then showed one to Abby. It was of a tall stiff-looking dark-haired man in an ill-fitting brown suit and a much shorter woman with reddish hair, in a black dress with a string of pearls around her neck. They were holding hands and gazing at each other lovingly.

“That’s mum and dad,” said Marcus. “Probably at a family wedding.”

“Oh, gosh, they look so in love!”

“Yeah. They were pretty happy most of the time, even when we had nothing.”

“That’s so sweet.”

He rubbed his thumb over the images lovingly. “Yeah.”

Was that part of what he was looking for, something like his parents had, a loving relationship? She didn’t know anything about his sexual history other than his intimations of sometimes being a bad boy. He’d enjoyed hinting that to her but then he liked to tease. He could have had long-term relationships as well – he’d mentioned one or two had stayed long enough to see his grumpy side. She ought to find that out at some point if she was to get to know him better.

He looked through the rest, handing the occasional thing of interest to Abby. There was a typed playbill from a school production of Grease he’d been in when he was at high school. He’d played Danny of course.

“Can you sing?” said Abby, surprised at this potential revelation.

“Well enough for high school.”

“It’s cute that your mum has saved all this stuff. Mine didn’t save much of mine except my first baby bootees and a lock of my hair. That’s all I found!”

“I was mortified by my parents when I was young, but I guess we all are.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, here we go,” Marcus said, his voice higher pitched with interest.

He unfolded an old newspaper dated 1 October 1989. _Slaughter in the Cove_ said the headline.

> _Gruesome events in Red Fort Cove yesterday with the discovery of three bodies in a shack above the beach. Aurora Blake, 40, her son Bellamy aged 8 and daughter Octavia aged 2, were found by a local man, John Joseph Morgan, after concerns were raised about the family’s whereabouts. Early reports suggest the three had been bludgeoned or stabbed to death up to two days prior to their discovery._
> 
> _According to Municipal officer and Old Fort fisherman, Robert Henry Kane, who was the first official on the scene, it was “a tragedy no man or woman should have to see, let alone endure.” Mr Kane told this reporter there was no sign of the husband and father of the children, William Blake, known as Bill. An order has been issued by the Royal Newfoundland Constabulary (RNC) for his arrest and detainment. “We are seeking no further suspects at this time,” said a spokesman._

There was a blurred-out photograph which was hard to make out but was entitled ‘The scene’ so Abby assumed it was of the bodies. They were lying where she’d thought after her examination of the floorboards that morning.

“Mum must have kept this because dad is quoted. I don’t remember it at all.”

“Maybe they kept it from you, didn’t want you to know the gory details.”

“Probably, although the rumours that flew around were way more horrific than the reality.”

“I bet. I was right about where they died.”

“Yeah?” Marcus took the paper, examined it. “Not far from the front door, between there and the kitchen.”

“Yes.”

He put the paper down. “What does this mean for you?”

“I don’t know.”

He stroked his stubble. “I can take you up to the cemetery if you want. They’re buried there.”

“Really?”

“We could make a walk out of it, get some fresh air, clear our heads.”

“That sounds great, yes. Thanks, Marcus.”

“No problem. Do you want to keep this?” he said, holding the article towards her.

“No. Keep it with the rest of your things for now.”

\---

The walk to the cemetery was certainly one to clear the cobwebs. The reasonable weather they’d enjoyed seemed to be coming to an end. Grey skies above, and out at sea darker ones blown closer by the wind that had picked up. There was a chill in the air, the promise of cold and rain, ice and snow to come.

“When are we likely to get the first snow?” Abby asked Marcus as they followed a trail made by generations of feet flattening the grass on the route from the village to the cemetery atop the hill.

“Could be anytime from October onwards. Can you feel it coming?”

“Yes. It’s noticeably chillier.”

“We might get some good days still, but it’s only going to get darker and colder from here on out.”

“Lovely!” said Abby unenthusiastically.

“If you can survive a winter here you can survive anything.”

Abby thought about what was to come as they walked quickly to keep warm. Marcus was worried she wouldn’t want to stay now she knew about the bodies in the shack and she wasn’t sure yet how she felt about it all. The fact was, though, that she had nowhere else to go. The house in Toronto had been sold, her life there packed up into storage apart from the few things she’d brought with her. Most of her money was tied up in the restaurant. What else was she going to do? Where could she go? Winter here could last six months. She couldn’t sit around doing nothing all that time.

“We’re here,” said Marcus, opening a small wrought iron gate that creaked on its hinges.

The cemetery was rough walled with stone that looked picked from the surrounding hills. It was dilapidated in places, overgrown with grasses and ferns. Moss covered the tops and shaded sides. Abby followed Marcus inside. The gravestones didn’t appear to be in any kind of order, no neat rows, no delineation from old to new. Old weather-beaten stones leaned precariously towards newer stones made of a sparkly granite.

“This is the Blake grave,” Marcus said, standing in front of a simple white cross.

Abby stood next to him, looked at it. Their names and ages were engraved and that was all. No message, no wise words to send them to their rest.

“She was the same age as me,” said Abby.

Marcus put his arm around her, kissed the side of her head through her woolly hat. “I wonder if he’s still alive, Bill, wherever he is? He was a few years older than my dad, so he’d be in his late seventies now.”

“Every chance, I suppose, although you’d think a violent man like that would meet a sticky end sooner rather than later.”

“We can but hope.” Marcus moved away to the far side of the cemetery next to the wall. He stopped in front of one of the newer-looking headstones. Abby gave him a few moments, and then followed.

His parents’ grave. Robert Henry Kane and Vera Kane. His father had died five years ago, his mother had been dead two months now.

“Horrible being an orphan, isn’t it, no matter how old you are?” she said.

“It is really, more than I’d thought. No one’s in your life as long, are they?”

“No, although... if I meet someone now and we’re together until I’m at least seventy then I’ll have been with them longer than my parents were in my life.”

“That’s some thought. I’d have to be at least eighty for that to be true.”

“Do you think someone could put up with you for forty years?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

She smiled up at him, and then for some reason tears welled in her eyes and she couldn’t stop them falling. She hadn’t cried in so long it felt like a half-forgotten relative visiting unannounced. The tears stung her wind-battered face as they dripped.

Marcus slipped his arms around her and she put hers around him, sobbed into his jacket. He rested his chin on her head, held her, swayed with her. He didn’t speak, and Abby was grateful for that. She just needed to let out this swell of emotion that had been building for two years. It had only been a matter of time before it spilled out.

“I’m okay,” she said when the tears dried up.

“The past is a part of us,” Marcus said, taking her hand and stroking her fingers.

“I know. As it should be.”

\---

Marcus made poutine for dinner on the small stove in his shack. The best comfort food, he said, and Abby couldn’t disagree. They spent some time at the table playing backgammon and then they retired to the chairs, read in a comfortable silence. Marcus was reading a novel and Abby picked up the Walden book, started to read his underlined passages. She couldn’t stop thinking, though, about the Blakes, and about the restaurant and her future, thoughts whirling round and round, possibilities, risks, opportunities, desires, hopes.

She stayed the night with him again. She wondered as they lay facing each other if they were becoming dependent on each other, slipping easily and with barely a ripple into a relationship, like a beaver into a lake. Maybe that’s how it was when it was meant to be. Weren’t you supposed to need the other person, want to spend all your time with them? She hadn’t expected it to happen again, and not so soon, which was why it was confusing. She’d wanted to move on. Wasn’t that the whole point of being here?

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, stroking his stubbly cheek with her thumb.

“Good,” he murmured, and the kiss they shared was warm and sweet.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said.

“I think I did the moment I saw you.”

“Are we crazy?”

“No, I think it’s wonderful.”

She snuggled into him, warm in the comfort of his embrace.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spooky happenings in the Cove

They were rewarded over the next couple of days with fine weather. The skies were blue like robins’ eggs, and seemed almost as fragile, as though it wouldn’t take much for them to break and the white/grey yoke of winter pour through, bringing icy rain and snow. The sun was pale and hung low in the sky seeming like it was too much effort to climb higher. Abby felt like that in the mornings when she put a foot outside the bed gingerly, testing the cold, working up the courage to get up. In her home it was fine because the heating was on and the house was warm. In Marcus’s shack it was a test of nerve to leave the warmth of the covers in the morning. She’d stayed one night at each and wasn’t sure now if the attraction of Marcus’s comforting arms was enough to convince her to stay with him.

“You have to sort some heating for your bedroom,” she said to him as they were stuffing insulation into the wall cavities in the dining room of her restaurant. It was cold in here too, even though they’d got the windows in and the roof fixed, but they were working hard physically so it was only when she stopped for a break that Abby noticed it.

“Cold biting is it?” he said with a grin.

“I just keep thinking how bitter it’s going to be when the winter sets in if it’s like this now.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of cold, it builds character.”

“Well, if you want this character to spend any more nights with you then you might want to think about doing something about it.”

Marcus laughed. He picked up a section of the insulation, wrapped it around her. “I’ll make you an all over body suit out of this.”

“You could do that, yes, but think what you’d be covering up.”

“Oh, hmm, yes. Perhaps not my best idea.” He kissed her, then unrolled her.

Abby smiled as she picked fibres of the sheep’s wool insulation she was using off her sweater. She and Marcus had settled into an enjoyably flirtatious relationship since they’d admitted their emotional attachments the other night, still unconsummated, but holding a lot of promise. She wanted to be with him in that way, but it was taking her mind longer than her heart to accept it. Their kisses were heated though when they were lying in bed together, and she could feel his desire when he held her to him. He never pushed her, merely followed her lead. It wouldn’t be long now, couldn’t be.

She tucked the sheep’s wool behind the frame, breathed in its scent which she loved. It smelt like new carpet, took her back to being a child and getting her bedroom redecorated. She’d walked on the plush new carpet in bare feet, delighting in the feel of the fibres between her toes.

She unrolled another section, laid it on the floor, took off her socks and shoes and stood on it.

“What on earth are you doing?” said Marcus, a puzzled look on his face.

“Feeling the wool between my toes. It’s so soft.”

Marcus took off his own socks and shoes, joined her on the roll. “Mmm, it does feel good!”

Abby stood on tiptoes, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. They rocked together on their island of wool, surrounded by the debris of the work still to be done.

At lunchtime Marcus disappeared outside, coming back ten minutes later with a smile on his face.

“What are you happy about?” said Abby.

“The thought of how happy you’re going to be in a minute.”

“Why, what have you done?”

“You have to go to White Rock this afternoon, yes?”

“Yes, I need to pick up the new baseboard to replace the one you stood on and snapped yesterday.”

“That’s right,” he said looking sheepish. “I’ll come with you. They’ve got a wood burning stove in stock. If you help me I could fit it this weekend.”

“Really?” Abby was amazed at how fast he’d worked to do this for her.

“Yes. They’ve got the flue system so it shouldn’t be a big job to install it.”

“Won’t we have to light it in the morning though to make it warm?”

“We will, but the bedroom is small. I think it will retain the heat overnight well enough.”

“That sounds amazing, thanks Marcus.”

“No problem. I was going to get around to it, I guess I just needed an incentive to shift my arse.”

“You’ve been busy helping me. I’ve probably delayed all your plans for the shack.”

“You haven’t, and even if you had I wouldn’t be complaining.”

\---

At one o’clock they walked to Abby’s house, got in her Toyota pickup truck which was rented and about twice the size of Marcus’s Ford 250. She drove along the twisting road which hugged the coast, the sea never far away.

“Seals!” said Marcus, pointing to a rock just off the shore.

Abby looked, glimpsed a dozen or so of the comfortingly fat creatures before the truck bounced and she realised she’d crossed the road boundary. She corrected herself, determined to keep her eyes on the road and not gawk at the scenery.

“Perhaps best if you keep your sightings to yourself,” she laughed.

“I’ll drive back if you want then you can look.”

“Ok, thanks.”

It didn’t matter that she’d been here five months now, or that she lived surrounded by nature, she still got a kick out of seeing the hills and the sea and the wildlife they contained.

In white Rock they went first to the bait and tackle store so Marcus could buy some new fishing line. The proprietor, an old man called Bill Cadogan who had a shock of thick white hair, was behind the counter. He looked suspiciously at Abby as she stood next to Marcus.

“You’re that one,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Abby could take the naked curiosity and crazy warnings of the local people but downright rudeness she wouldn’t accept.

“Show some manners, Bill,” said Marcus.

“I means nothing by it; Tis an observation that’s all.”

“Well keep your observations to yourself if you can’t be polite.”

“I’m not the one stirring up the spirits b’y.”

“Abby knows about the Blakes; I’ve told her the whole story and she isn’t frightened away, so your scaremongering is pointless.”

“It ain’t scaremongering, boy and you should know that. Your daddy saw what happened. He knew the truth.”

“My dad saw the work of a murderer and as terrible as it was to witness, that’s all it was. This is ridiculous. Come on, Abby.” Marcus turned to leave but Abby put her hand on his arm to stop him.

“Wait.” She turned to Bill Cadogan. “You’ve lived here all your life I presume?”

The old man frowned. “What of it?”

“Just that you must have been around when the murders happened. Do you think William Blake did it?”

Cadogan was suntanned and weather beaten, a typical old sailor dog, but he paled at her question.

“Who else would have done it?”

“I don’t know, but everyone seemed to jump to that conclusion pretty quickly.”

“His wife and two kids were dead and he was nowhere to be seen. Seems pretty obvious to me.”

“Yes, but then I have one question for you.”

“What’s that?” he said, leaning towards her slightly, interested despite himself.

“If it’s all so straightforward, why are the spirits of the children crying out? Perhaps they can’t rest because their real murderer has never been found.” She leaned towards Cadogan in the same manner, and he recoiled, his face now completely drained of colour.

“Ought to get back to the city that’s what you ought to do,” he said, thrusting Marcus’s fishing line at him and swiping the bills off the counter.

Outside the store and Marcus turned to her looking puzzled. “I thought you didn’t believe in the ghosts theory?”

“I don’t, but I wanted to see how he’d react to it. He didn’t like the suggestion the murderer wasn’t Blake, did he?”

“No, but that is a wild theory, Abby.”

“Wilder than ghosts are haunting the shack? Someone’s responsible for the message on the wall and the intimidation.”

“You can’t think it’s old man Cadogan, he’s at least seventy.”

“No, but I think he knows more than he’s letting on. I think a lot of them do. There’s more to this than meets the eye, Marcus.”

They got the baseboard and the stove with its accessories and Marcus drove back to Red Fort Cove. Abby stared out of the window, watching the sea and thinking about the Blakes and the shack. If you didn’t believe in ghosts and spirits then someone was responsible for the strange events thirty years ago and they were still doing it now. Why would they bother, unless it was to distract peoples’ attention, to ensure that no one looked any deeper into what had really happened to the Blakes.

They dropped the baseboard and the stove at the restaurant and Marcus headed to his shack to get a small trolley he used for transporting goods down the slope and across the beach. Abby drove the short distance to her house to drop off the pickup truck.

As she approached it was immediately obvious something was wrong. The windows were all pushed wide open and she knew she hadn’t left them like that. She parked the Toyota, jumped out and stood in front of the house hands on hips while she wondered what to do. She decided to walk around the house first and as she did that, she saw that every single window was open. The doors were closed and when she tried the back one it was locked. She went around to the front again, tried the front door which was also locked. A cold shiver ran through her. She knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for it, but the primitive part of her brain reacted with fear.

She recalled Marcus saying this had happened to a few houses in the village after the murders had taken place, along with music playing and other strange phenomena. This must be someone playing a prank like back then. She got her key from her pocket, put it in the lock then hesitated. What if someone was still inside? It was unlikely, but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t call Marcus because he didn’t have a cell phone. It would be fine. She turned the key and pushed open the door.

“Hello!” she said, although she wasn’t sure why because if someone was laying in wait, they were hardly likely to answer her. The house was still and quiet, as though it had been holding one long breath while she was away. Her movements through it stirred the air. It didn’t feel like anyone was inside. She looked into the living room first but that was clearly empty. Her bedroom lay across the hall and there was no one in there at first glance. She bent and looked under the bed. Clear. There was a tall wooden closet for her clothes and she went up to that, stood outside it for a moment then yanked the door open quickly. Empty.

The other rooms were the same so whoever had been in the house had gone. She stood in the kitchen, her hands on the counter, and took deep breaths, calming her racing heart.

“Is everything okay?” said a voice.

“Shit! Fucking hell!” she said, jumping out of her skin and turning to see Marcus standing in the doorway.

“Whoa! It’s only me. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“God, no it’s not your fault.” She put her hand on her heart where it was thumping out of control.

She told him about the windows, and he made a detour of the house himself checking everything a second time.

“The doors were locked?”

“Yes, like the restaurant the other day.”

“Hmm. Very odd.” He steepled his hands in front of his face, fingers touching his lips as if in prayer.

“Maybe someone has keys to both places from before, someone who knew the Blakes.”

“That’s a great point. Maybe the agent who rented you this place will know.”

“I’ll call and find out.”

“You can stay with me tonight,” he said, leaning over the counter to close the windows.

“I’m not letting these people push me out of my home and my business, Marcus.”

“I know, but I’d just feel happier if I knew you were safe.”

“I will be safe.”

“Don’t stay here out of some bloody-minded desire not to be beaten.”

“I’m not bloody-minded,” she said, folding her arms and glaring at him. “I refuse to be intimidated and I can handle myself.”

“Fine, then I’ll stay here.”

“No. I think I want to be on my own tonight.”

Marcus stared at her as though she was out of her mind. Abby knew she’d painted herself into a corner now and couldn’t back out even if she wanted to. Part of her did, because it was creepy, but most of her was indeed bloody-minded, not that she’d admit it to Marcus. She was damned if she was going to let him or these crazy villagers dictate how she lived her life.

“Okay, but don’t come crying to me when you’re murdered in your bed.”

“That would be hard to do if I’m dead.” She held his gaze and she saw a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re impossible, you know that right?”

“No, I’m just me, and I have the same rights to do what I want as you do.”

“I know that. I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said. “Wouldn’t you feel the same if the situation were reversed?”

He’d got her there. Damn him! “Yes, I suppose,” she acknowledged grudgingly.

“Well, I’m glad you suppose that.” He grinned and then pulled her into his arms. “Just don’t die, okay. Promise me that.”

“I won’t.”

She let him comfort her or himself which was what he was really doing and then she pulled away. “I take it you’ve still to move your stove?”

“Yes, I came back to get it when I realised you weren’t there.”

“Let’s go and move that and then we can get on with the insulation.”

They shut the rest of the windows and Abby locked the doors again, though it felt there was little point if someone could let themselves in whenever they wanted. She’d leave a note next time she left the house, asking them to vacuum while they were visiting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting warm in Marcus's bedroom.

Over the next few days more spooky things happened and not just to Abby. Her neighbour, Mrs Byrne, was the first to complain that someone had entered her house while she was up in Labrador City visiting her sister. They’d swapped all the items in her kitchen cupboards around.

“I can’t be doin’ with all this carryin’ on. Me nerves, de got me drove!” she’d said, waving her hands around as Abby surveyed the cupboards. Everything was neat and ordered. She didn’t know what was in each cupboard before, so it was impossible for her to know if what Mrs Byrne was saying was true.

“Are you absolutely sure things are in the wrong place?” she’d asked, examining the aged woman carefully. The creases in Mrs Byrne’s brow concertinaed as she frowned deeply.

“I may be old, but I’m not stunned. There’s no moss in here, me ducky.” She patted her head.

Abby understood she was saying she was old but not stupid.

“No, of course, I’m sorry. Well, please let me know if anything else happens.”

After that, a litany of tales and complaints made their way to her via people who stopped her as she walked to and from the restaurant, or who had told Marcus who then told her. The stories were the same as the ones Marcus had talked about from thirty years ago. Music playing, doors and windows opened, items in the house rearranged. Nothing had been stolen or damaged as far as she knew. She didn’t dare go into the store for fear she’d be trapped there by Foxy O’Dowd and his hairy stomach.

The day after she’d dismissed Marcus and stayed alone in the house, she’d found more writing on the wall of the restaurant. _Leave us in peace_ it had said.

“Last week they wanted help, this week they want leaving alone. I do love a ghost who can’t make up their mind,” she’d said to Marcus, sounding more unconcerned than she’d felt. She didn’t want him fussing any more than he already was, and she figured if she treated it with the contempt it deserved then that might ease the growing sense of dread she was experiencing every time she turned a key in a lock or left the house or the restaurant. They wanted her to feel this way, that was the point she told herself unconvincingly.

She’d stayed in her own home for two nights in order to make her point, not that Marcus had said anything about it since, and yesterday she’d figured the only person she was punishing was herself as she was sleeping alone when there was another warm body only a few hundred yards away she could be curled up with. She’d stayed the night with him in his shack and it was officially freezing according to all her extremities. That was why they were spending the day fitting the new stove in his bedroom rather than working in her restaurant.

“Did you manage to get through to the letting agent?” Marcus said as they laid the granite hearth the stove would stand on.

“Yes, finally. They claim there are only two sets of keys to the house and I have one and they have the other. The restaurant came to them for sale via the Municipality, so they told me to contact them but no one’s returning my calls.”

“I’ll see if I can get through to them.”

“Thanks. I rang that guy in White Rock you told me about, Tom Anders the locksmith. He said he can come out next week to change them.”

“Next week? What’s the hold-up? There can’t be that many people requiring his services surely.”

“He claims he’s rushed off his feet.”

“Hmm. Things often happen at a glacial pace around here I guess.”

While Marcus worked on the flue which required cutting a hole in the side of the shack, Abby made them a hot drink. She’d snuck some of her coffee into his house so she didn’t have to keep drinking tea which she only tolerated. Marcus protested that her strong black coffee smelled like burnt toast, but she ignored him.

She returned to the bedroom, handed him his mug. “What am I going to do about everything that’s happening in the village?” she said as they sat on the floor with their backs to the bedstead.

“Who says you have to do anything? It’s not your fault someone’s decided to mess with you.”

“I know but I feel bad that people are suffering this. It’s scary for them.”

“I’ve tried to make enquiries, but no one will talk to me. They know we’re together and now I’m as much of an enemy as you are.” He sipped his tea, smiling into his mug.

“I’m sorry they’re treating you like that.”

“Don’t be. Why do you think I got out of here in the first place? It will die down I’m sure of it, and they’re not doing any actual harm are they?”

“Not physically, but mentally they’re fucking with everyone.”

“True. Do you still think you’ve made the right decision to stay here?” Marcus turned his dark eyes on her. She didn’t know if he somehow did it deliberately or his feelings just showed in his face, because he couldn’t look more soulful if he tried. She leaned in and kissed him.

“Yes, for lots of reasons.”

“Okay, but if you wanted to go, I would go with you, if you wanted me to.”

Abby didn’t reply. She set her coffee mug on the hearth and put her hands either side of his face, kissing him deeply. He put his arm around her, shifted so they were closer together. They both moaned softly as they kissed.

“I would want you to,” said Abby as they parted, “but I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here.”

“Good. We’ll face this together.”

They sat shoulder to shoulder in warm companionship as they finished their drinks. Afterwards, Abby went to the kitchen to prepare the dinner while Marcus finished installing the flue. He called her in for the final part which was to test it. He’d already laid the kindling and paper in the stove and he gave Abby the matches. She struck one, held it to the paper in various places until it caught light.

They sat on the floor in front of it watching while the fire took hold. Marcus read the instructions out loud and Abby fiddled with the dial and the slider as they worked out how to control the airflow for maximum efficiency. A fan on top of the stove whirred quietly.

“I think we did a great job!” said Marcus, his cheeks already pink from the warmth and his satisfaction at the task achieved.

“We did, it’s amazing. Looks really good as well.”

“Now you have no excuse not to stay,” he said looking at her slyly.

“Oh, so that’s why you bought it! I should have known.”

“Just giving you options.”

“Mm-hmm.” Abby stood, her knees creaking loudly. “God, I’m getting old!” she said, laughing.

“Hardly.” Marcus held his hand out and Abby pulled him to his feet.

“I’m going to finish dinner. It’ll be about half an hour.”

“Great. I’ll clean up in here.”

Abby had baked trout with a herb butter and they ate it at the table in the living room, washing it down with a bottle of red wine they took their time over. Outside, rain lashed against the windows and the wind howled a mournful tune.

They stayed at the table after they’d cleared the dishes away, Marcus carving some figures for his village scene, Abby playing with shells and sea glass she’d found that morning, trying to work out a nice design. She figured she could frame it and hang it in Marcus’s bedroom. They worked in a companionable silence, the only sounds the scrape of Marcus’s knife against the wood, and the clack of the shells as Abby moved them around her piece of card.

They’d been rare in her life, times like this. Jake had been a talker, and they saw so little of each other they’d always been catching up. Marcus was happy sitting or working quietly, felt no desire to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter. It was different, but she found it peaceful and relaxing and enjoyed it.

“That’s definitely Foxy O’Dowd,” she said a few minutes later when Marcus had finished painting one of his figures.

“Is it the reddish hair that gives it away?”

“No, the hairy stomach.”

He picked up the figure between finger and thumb, careful to avoid the wet paint. “You like that detail, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say like, but you’re very observant.”

“I like to look,” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Are you going to carve my figure?”

“I’d have to observe it first.” He pushed back his chair and held out his hand. Abby got up, went over to him.

He put his hands around her waist and pulled her gently onto his knee. She stroked his hair then leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“Shall we go to bed, see how warm the room is?” Her heart thumped hard against her chest because she knew that possibility lay beneath her words. It felt right suddenly, natural. She thought Marcus understood, because his face softened, his thin lips turning up into a warm smile.

“Let’s see,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the bedroom.

It was cosy inside, the fire casting a warm orange glow. Marcus added more logs to it, closed the glass door. His shadow joined Abby’s as he approached the bed. They stripped off their jeans, got in bed in t-shirts and underwear. Abby pushed the covers back against the wall because it was too warm for them.

They lay facing each other. Marcus reached across, tucked loose strands of her hair behind her ear, taking his time, stroking them into place. Abby leaned into the palm of his hand, turned so she could press a kiss to it. He moved closer, his face inches from hers, his breath a whisper against her cheek. She held him, brought his lips to hers. He was warm and wet, butter and herbs and the bitterness of wine. They pressed closer, arms wrapped around each other, kissing until the desire for something more became overwhelming.

Abby pulled off her t-shirt, wriggled out of her underwear. Marcus did the same and they examined each other in the pale light. He was broad chested with a slim waist. Body lightly sculpted, muscles firm. His uncut cock stood erect from a nest of fine, dark hairs. She touched it, smiled as it jumped. She trailed her fingers over its ridges, wrapped her fist around the top and eased the skin down. The head was revealed, pink and slippery. She bent to it, licked the juice.

Marcus moaned. She sucked on him until he stroked her face, lifted her chin. He rolled her onto her back, sat across her calves. His hands roamed her body head to toe, caressing, thumbing, lips following, kissing and sucking. She hadn’t been explored like this in a long time. She was newly found land. Every curve traced; each valley mapped. She rose to his touch.

He went down on her with the quiet meticulousness with which he did everything, his lips sucking on hers, tongue probing. His rough tipped fingers were gentle as they stroked. He entered her with them, discovered her hidden depths. She arched towards him, cried out.

Her body hummed with pleasure and Marcus crawled over her, covered her with his. Sharp bones against soft skin. His lips were all her when he kissed her, brackish with her taste and scent. She sucked her sticky juices off his fatter bottom lip making him groan.

His cock teased her, the tip of it rubbing over her still aching clit. She lifted her hips, whispered encouragements. He pushed inside, heavy and tight. She wrapped her legs around him, her hands gripping his back, holding onto the angular blades of his shoulders as he rolled against her.

“You feel good. So good,” she whispered.

He kissed her in reply, his hands caressing the side of her face. He was elegant in his movements, his strokes rhythmic, using his full length as he drove in and out. “Don’t waste energy, make full use of every stroke,” he’d said when he was showing her how to use the saw that first day in the shack. A giggle escaped her at the symmetry of then and now.

“You okay?” he said, the first words he’d uttered.

“Yes. You’re hitting the good spots.”

He thrust harder at that, and Abby slid her hands down his back, into the valley above his arse and then to his cheeks, grasping them, her fingertips probing the cleft, stroking the ridge there.

“Aah!” he cried. “Oh, god!”

She squeezed him, stroked him, rocked with him, and she came again, the heat inside this time, like an eruption. He lost it towards the end, all smoothness and control gone.

“Marcus,” she murmured in his ear. “Marcus.”

His cry was strangled, his pleasure a wet rush between her legs. They lay in each other’s heat and sweat afterwards, hearts thumping.

“Thank you,” he said, caressing her face, brushing damp strands of hair in the way this had started.

She kissed him in reply then buried her face in his neck, breathing in the driftwood and the smokiness.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he said, sighing happily.

\---

Abby woke to a weak sunlight filtering through the curtains Marcus had hung at the window when she’d last stayed. Remnants of warmth in the room even though the fire in the stove was reduced to glowing embers. She stretched, turned onto her side. Marcus was facing away from her, seemingly still asleep. She examined his back, the curve of it from his broad shoulders down to his firm arse. The skin was stretched taught as he lay curled, the notches on his spine ridged, the hollow at the base a gentle valley.

She touched him lightly, trailed her fingers down his spine. He sighed, shifted slightly. She trailed again, both hands this time, into the valley and then over his cheeks. Leaning in, she kissed the sharp blades of his shoulders and he moaned sleepily. She pushed him over so he was on his front, straddled him, ran her hands all over his warm skin, tracing freckles and dimples, pale stretch marks over his now thin hips. She wanted to know him, explore every inch as he had her. She devoured him slowly, hungry for him.

Marcus turned beneath her so he was on his back. His eyes were warm and sleep sated as he gazed at her. Abby bent her head, kissed his lips, slipped her tongue into his mouth, tasted the morning on him. He put his arms around her pulled her on top of him, his hands on her arse this time, fingers finding the valley where her desire pooled.

She reached between them, found his cock, angled her body so she could sink down on it. She sat back then, looked down at him as she rocked. He watched her, hands on her thighs, stroking them. She leant back, stretched her body, got lost in the feel of him deep inside, the rub of his thumb on her clit, gentle at first, becoming insistent as her breaths became moans. Marcus thrust up again and again, stomach muscles flexing, grunting with the exertion. It was primal really, what they were doing, not even dressed up as anything, just an expression of desire, a taking of pleasure from each other because they could.

She lay on top of him afterwards, their limbs entangled. “You’re so good,” she said, kissing the lobe of his ear. It was the first thing either of them had said.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered in return.

“Morning,” she said, lifting her head so she could smile at him.

“That was some way to wake up.”

“Yeah, fantastic.” She sighed with satisfaction, rolled them so they were facing each other.

Abby didn’t want to get up, face the realities of the day, because who knew what chaos it would bring? She was comfortable here with Marcus. Warm, cosy, gloriously satisfied.

“We’d better get up,” Marcus said, kissing her nose then rolling onto his back.

“Yeah,” said Abby.

“I’ll make toutons; we’ve earned the calories.”

“Okay. You go first.”

She watched as he got out of bed naked, padded to the stove and poked it into life with some new kindling and a few logs.

“This worked well,” he said, standing and looking at it, hands on hips, before bending again to sort the clothes he wanted from a neat pile on the floor. “Next project will be a chest of drawers.”

He grinned at her, then disappeared into the bathroom. Abby lay back on the bed, enjoying her naked warmth. I’ll get up in a minute, she thought. Just one more minute.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby and Marcus's bliss is short-lived

The walk to the restaurant later that morning was through mist and drizzle. Abby and Marcus walked slowly hand in hand, oblivious to everything except each other. Up above, the gulls and the gannets whirled and called. Out at sea the fat seals lazed on newly uncovered rocks. The shore looked empty but on close inspection the dark, wet sand teemed with dark, wet birds, heads down not to avoid the rain but to find the worms and other creatures whose hiding places were betrayed by the retreating tide. The life of the coast went about its business as usual; nothing had changed.

For Abby, everything had. She was a brain fogged with hormones and the memory of the morning, a heart full to bursting, a body aching and tired and already anticipating the next time. She was a hand held lovingly within another, a head kissed at random times for no reason, small footsteps walking in time with larger ones that paced themselves to hers. Love and sex. They could raise you high and bring you low. Right now she was soaring with the gannets she wasn’t even aware of.

At the top of the path Marcus stopped, pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He didn’t speak when they parted. All he did was sigh. It summed up her feelings completely.

Inside the restaurant she was relieved to see there was no new message or anything out of place. A note fluttered into view when she shut the door behind her. She picked it up, opened it. Marcus was taking his hat and coat off when she let out a groan.

“What’s up?” he said.

“This goddamned place!” She showed him the note and he read it out loud.

“The situation in the Cove can’t go on. We are holding a meeting at the Harbourmaster’s office tonight at six-thirty. Please be there.” Marcus’s smile was well and truly gone when he looked up at her, his brow creased, his lips set in a straight line. “For fuck’s sake!”

“I can understand it.” She hung her hat and coat next to his. “Their lives have been turned upside down by this.”

“Not by you, by the idiots who are deliberately creating the chaos.”

“Nevertheless, it’s because of me. If I weren’t here, if I hadn’t bought the shack, this wouldn’t be happening to them. That’s how they’ll see it.”

“They haven’t even signed it, the cowardly bastards,” he said, handing the note back to her.

“We’ll see who’s involved when we go tonight I guess.”

“You’re not seriously thinking about attending this thing, are you?”

“Yes. How else will I know what they want to say?”

“You know what they’re going to say.”

“I’m not hiding from it,” Abby said in a tone that said she was done discussing it.

She went into the kitchen, slid her knife down a role of insulation, splitting it open, the wool bulging out. They only had one more wall left to insulate and clad in the drywall and then the restaurant would be dry and relatively warm until the heating system went in. She’d decided on underfloor heating so the rooms wouldn’t be cluttered and there’d be as much space as possible. They were planning on taking up the floorboards tomorrow if they got the last of the drywall up.

In the afternoon the rain became heavier and the skies darker. They were working in close proximity, bodies touching. It was only a matter of time before their touches became more intimate. It was overwhelming, the desire Abby felt for Marcus. She managed to extricate herself reluctantly from his arms, went to the front door and locked it, moving the coat stand in front of it to block the glass and the view of anyone coming up to the door.

When she turned, Marcus had followed her into the dining room. Their kisses became frantic and hot. They ended up at the windows, Abby pressed naked against them, breasts squashed, her hands flat against the glass as Marcus thrust hard from behind. There was no one to see them other than the birds and the seals who didn’t care, but Abby felt the thrill of exposure nevertheless.

“We’re never going to get this job finished if we carry on like this,” she said afterwards as she picked up her clothes and put them back on.

“I can live with that,” grinned Marcus.

They worked hard in the afternoon, got the rest of the job done with only a few diversions into kisses during tea breaks. Abby stood looking at the new walls in the dining room with a feeling of immense satisfaction. With the windows and the walls finished her ultimate vision was starting to take shape before her eyes. There was still the heating to install, the floor to finish and the plastering to do, but a month or so of hard work and the first fix would be over. After that it would be a winter of painting and decorating, installing the light sockets and other fittings weather permitting. A ripple of excitement went through her.

It faded when Marcus said it was six o’clock and they’d better get ready for the meeting. They finished tidying quickly, wrapped up against the cold and wet and hurried along the road, torches making little difference in the mist, the light forming an aura in front of them, rainbow tinged in the rain. They passed Abby’s house and Marcus’s parents’ house, both of which looked undisturbed, down the hill to the harbour.

It seemed to Abby as she entered the Harbourmaster’s office that every one of the hundred inhabitants of Red Fort Cove was present, crowded into the small back room. It must usually serve as a break-cum-store room because there were a couple of desks which had been pushed against the back wall, one on top of the other, with chairs stacked adjacent. Buoys and ropes and equipment of all kinds lined the walls. In the centre, crowded together like a shoal of mackerel were the townsfolk, talking animatedly. A silence descended as Abby was spotted, and they turned sinuously as one to look at her.

“All that’s missing is the pitchforks,” whispered Abby to Marcus.

“It’s just an evening out for most of them.”

“Glad to be the village entertainment!”

She looked out over the crowd, spotted Foxy O’Dowd and his tiny mouse of a wife who had mousy brown hair, pale grey eyes, and a mousy way of looking around nervously. Abby would be nervous too if she had to live with Foxy and the threat of his hairy stomach and wiry whiskers looming over her. Her neighbour, Mrs Byrne, gave Abby a brief nod but no smile. That old coot Bill Cadogan was lurking in the background. He had one of his pals with him, Luke O’Neill, but not the third in the triumvirate, the locksmith Anders. Presumably he was out dealing with all the locks in the area that were more important than Abby’s.

She realised as she surveyed everyone that she had no allies amongst them, no one she could call a friend, other than Marcus. She’d been here five months and hadn’t got closer than a hello or a brief conversation with any of the Covers. Was that because of the shack, or had she not put in enough effort? She’d been single-minded perhaps, focused on her own project and problems. She wondered which out of the crowd would be the leader of this gathering.

It turned out to be Mrs Morgan, the Harbourmaster, who pushed in from behind Abby and Marcus, splitting them apart momentarily.

“Sorry I’m late,” she heaved breathlessly, dripping rainwater onto the floor from her sou’wester. Her broom hair was now a wet mop atop her head. “Had to fix a problem with one of the moorings.”

“Was it you who called this meeting?” said Abby, anxious to get it over with.

“I agreed to hold it. Well, the task was pushed upon me, but yes, I suppose I am in charge.”

“Then perhaps we can make a start. I have other things to attend to.”

“You and the teacher got urgent things to do have you?” said a young man with a shock of blonde hair whom she didn’t know. He smiled lasciviously at her and Marcus, and a ripple of sniggers went around the room.

“He’s teaching ‘er to jig his cod,” said another man.

“You needs to tug on it, darlin’,” said the blonde.

“That’s enough!” said Mrs Morgan, crossly.

Abby didn’t dare look at Marcus. She was amused more than anything, didn’t want to catch his eye and see the same thing in his face because she knew she’d laugh.

“Now, Mrs Griffin—” started Mrs Morgan.

“Oh, you might as well call me Abby as we’re about to get personal.”

“Mrs Griffin...Abby,” she relented. “The villagers are concerned about all the happenings in the Cove lately on account of the work you’re doing on the old Blake shack.”

“The happenings as you call them aren’t because of the work I’m doing, they’re the result of mischievous people who for some reason want to cause trouble.”

“How can a person get inside a locked house?” shouted a man in a red and black woollen jacket.

“I don’t know.”

“Probably because no one locks their doors,” said Marcus. “We never have.”

“We do now,” said Foxy.

“It doesn’t help,” said his wife. “Yesterday, someone had got into the shop and rearranged half the shelves.”

“It’s easier to find things now!” quipped a young man at the back, to laughter.

“At least no one’s stealing anything,” said the blonde man.

“The spirits don’t eat or drink real food, Ashley,” said Mrs O’Dowd.

“It’s not spirits, more like people after drinking a lot of spirits,” replied blonde Ashley.

There was a babble of conversation after this as people agreed or disagreed. It was pleasing to Abby that at least a few people hadn’t fallen for the ghost story.

“People, drunk or elsewise, don’t account for all what’s goin’ on,” said Bill Cadogan. “It’s the ghosts of the dead she’s upset with her work up there. We didn’t have any of this until she got here.”

“We had this thirty years ago. You should remember, Bill,” said Marcus.

“You were a nipper back then, what do you know?” said Cadogan dismissively.

“Cadogan’s right,” said his companion, Luke O’Neill. “It was the spirits of those poor dead kids back then and now she’s disturbed their rest and they’re back. She needs to stop the work before it’s too late.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Abby impatiently. “There are no such things as ghosts or spirits.”

“How would you know? You’re a come from away, you don’t belong here,” said Cadogan.

“That’s enough, Bill!” warned Marcus. “Abby belongs here as much as any of us. She’s trying to improve this place, give us something to enjoy, bring tourists and money here.”

“She’s from a big city, she doesn’t know our ways. They probably have ghosts up there in Toronto, but no one knows cause they’s all too busy wi themselves.”

“All the ghosts there are in the Parliament,” said some wag at the back to more laughter.

“Prime Minister Trudeau haunts my dreams often enough,” said someone else.

“He haunts my dreams too but not for the same reasons,” smirked a young girl with long brown hair standing with Ashley who gave her an unimpressed look.

“You’re all missing the point of everything, here,” said Abby, increasingly frustrated at the mix of superstition and irreverence she was facing. This was her life at the end of the day, her livelihood. She’d sunk everything into it and wasn’t about to lose it because of a few delusional locals.

“First of all, IF it’s ghosts, then I see no reason why they would be bothered by the work I’m doing. It’s not as if they’re laying there, it’s not their grave. If anything, I’d have thought they’d be glad that something happy and positive was happening after such a sad event.

“Secondly, if it’s not ghosts, it’s humans. The question we should be asking ourselves is who is doing this and why? Why don’t they want me here? If it was just me, if I moved here and, say, bought the store or a house, would you object to me then?”

She looked around, satisfied to see mostly shakes of the head instead of nods.

“So, it’s the place itself. Someone doesn’t want me working there. Why not? Do they have something to hide? What is it?”

“Why would anyone have something to hide?” said Mrs Morgan. Her hair was drying out and strands of it stood straight whilst the rest was still flat. “The youngsters and the wife are dead. The father escaped. We all knows what happened.”

“Do you? Nobody knows for sure that Bill Blake killed his family. He’s never been seen since. Maybe someone doesn’t want the truth to come out.”

“What truth?” said Ashley.

“That the murderer is here still, in Red Fort Cove.”

It was as though the room itself took a breath, the sound was so uniform. Even Marcus looked at her, surprised. She could tell he wanted to say something, but he wouldn’t contradict her in public, at least she hoped he wouldn’t. To Abby it seemed obvious there was more to all of this, and what better explanation? It made perfect, logical sense. More sense than the spirits of thirty-years-dead children.

“Mrs Griffin!” said Mrs Morgan, her hand on her chest. “There are no murderers in Red Fort Cove. What a suggestion!”

“Aye, this takes the biscuit,” said Cadogan.

“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. I don’t know what they’re hiding or why, but I can promise you this - I’m going to find out.”

There was a huge commotion after that with people talking and shouting, pointing at her, accusing her of all sorts. Many of the most offended were so apoplectic they’d lapsed into local dialect so she was spared from understanding most of the insults. Marcus ushered her out into the night before things got too ugly.

“You’re some ticket, as my mother would say,” Marcus said with a disbelieving laugh as they headed away from the harbour and back up the hill.

“If that means what I think it means I don’t care,” said Abby, forging ahead of Marcus, her anger and annoyance driving her up the hill in record time. “They needed stirring up.”

“Was that a wise thing to do, though?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, if there’s a murderer in Red Fort Cove you’ve just put them on notice that you’re out to expose them. They might do more than open a few windows to stop you.”

Abby paused at the top of the hill. Everything was dark and hidden by the mist which had now become a fog. Above and around her small pinpricks of light barely pierced the gloom from the houses whose occupants weren’t still down at the harbour office. Ahead, she knew, was her restaurant, standing proudly on its lonely promontory. Below, the path to the beach, Marcus’s shack at the far end. These places were familiar now; she could find them in the dark probably. They felt like home, but they weren’t, that much had just been made clear to her.

“Maybe that’s what it needs to bring this to a head.”

“I’m all for trying to resolve it but not at the expense of your safety.” Marcus was a ghostly shape in the weak light of the torch.

“Everything I have is sunk into this, Marcus. Most of my money from Jake’s death and the sale of our house has already been spent or earmarked, and what’s left is there to see me through the first year. I can’t lose that. I just can’t.”

“It’s only money. You could lose a lot more than that.”

He was frightened for her, it was in the set of his brow and his wide, dark eyes. His fear gave Abby pause, because he was usually so calm, unfazed about his own safety when he was up a ladder or dangling from a roof.

“We have to resolve it. It’s the only way.”

“How?”

“The answer’s in the shack itself. I’m sure of it.”

“We’ve had that place inside out during the renovations, Abby. There’s nothing.”

“There’s something. We just have to find it.”

Marcus shook his head, but his lips were curved into a thin smile. He put his arm around her, and they headed for the path. “Have you always been like this, so stubborn, so determined?” he said.

“You don’t have your own restaurant in Toronto by being afraid to crack a few eggs, Marcus.”

He laughed at that as they descended to the shore. When they reached the sand he stopped again. He turned her to face him. They were both little more than outlines of people now. Vague human shapes in the rain-sodden dark.

“Will you promise me one thing?”

“What is it?”

“Please let me be with you for the next few days. Don’t leave me, don’t rush off on your own even if it’s just to the store. Don’t do that to this heart, because it’s old and it’s only just found you. It won’t survive losing you.”

She heard rather than saw the thumping of his hand against his jacketed chest. It was emotional blackmail he’d resorted to in his desperation which normally she wouldn’t like, but she could see she’d potentially caused some trouble for herself, and she couldn’t blame him for being concerned.

“Okay. I promise.” She reached for him in the dark, found his cheek with its two-day stubble. She caressed the rough hairs with her thumb, brought his face down to hers and kissed him. “I won’t leave you.”

“Good,” he replied, his hand stroking her woolly hat. “Now, let’s go and get dry.”

Back in the shack they hung up their wet jackets and hats and headed straight for the bedroom. Abby honestly intended only to strip off her wet clothes and get into some dry ones, but that wasn’t how the rest of the evening went.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby and Marcus find something hidden at the shack

Abby woke on the last day of September with a sense of dread in her stomach, making her feel sick. It didn’t disappear when she stood in the small bath beneath the spray of warm water from the copper shower head nor when she sat down to breakfast with Marcus. She was unable to eat the pancakes he’d made for her and pushed them to one side.

“Sorry.”

“Aren’t you hungry?” he said with concern.

“I just don’t feel like I can eat anything.”

“Do you feel okay? You’re not coming down with something?” He reached across, felt her forehead.

“No, I’m fine. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if you’re thinking it. You’re the most straightforward person I know. What’s the matter?”

“I guess the reality of what I did last night has sunk in, and it’s the anniversary today of when the bodies were discovered. I know I said I wanted to stir them up, but I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about today.”

“I know what you mean and it’s not stupid to have that feeling. You poked the hornet’s nest last night and I’m not gonna pretend I’m not worried, but if something happens, we’ll deal with it together.”

“Yeah,” said Abby, his optimism not doing anything to settle her stomach.

“The sun always sets at the end of the day, Abby. Nothing that will happen today can change that and so there is always a certainty to hold onto, no matter what happens. We will see the sunset,” said Marcus, reaching for her hand across the table and stroking the back of it with his thumb.

“Is that a Thoreau saying?”

“No, it’s Marcus Kane.”

“The wisdom of Marcus Kane. Is that the title of your book?”

“My book has no title as of yet, though I think your suggestion might be a little presumptuous.”

“Will you let me read it one day?”

The agonised spasms that crossed his face while he thought about her request made Abby sorry that she’d asked him, and her heart went out to him. All his thoughts and feelings were in there, she supposed. His doubts and fears as well as his joys. She’d been too cavalier asking him about it.

“It’s okay, Marcus. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s, erm, it’s very personal that’s all.”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t necessarily written it for publication.”

“I understand.”

“Let me think about it.”

Abby nodded, squeezed his hand. “I feel stronger having you with me today,” she said.

That made his eyes brighten with happiness. “I’m glad. You know, we can always stay here all day if you want. I’m sure we can find things to keep us occupied.” His eyebrows twitched suggestively.

Abby laughed. “I’m sure we could, but like I said the other week, I’m not letting them push me out.”

“As concerned as I am, I agree with you. Let’s go. Let’s face it.”

The day reflected Abby’s mood as they walked along the beach arm in arm. The clouds were dark grey and hung heavy in the sky, skimming the sea so that there was no horizon, just a wall of portentous doom. There was no wind, and as she walked across the rocks, she realised there was no bird sound, and even the waves lapping against the shore were subdued.

“The calm before the storm,” said Marcus, echoing her thoughts.

“If the sun sets tonight we might never see it,” she said, referring to his earlier words of comfort.

“Perhaps not, but it will still have set.” He took her hand in his, squeezed it. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know.”

“Marcus!” Abby looked at him in surprise, tears springing to her eyes because her emotions were on high alert, waiting for an excuse to burst out of the prison she was trying to keep them locked in.

He shrugged, kissed her woolly hatted head. “It’s true.”

He pulled her into his arms and rested his chin on her head. Abby put her arms around him. It was a lovely thing that he’d said, but the part of her that was anticipating the storm ahead couldn’t help thinking it was a ‘just in case’, like he needed to tell her how he felt about her just in case they died horribly at some point in the near future.

She was thinking gloomily again like she had so many times over the last two years. She’d thought being happy might have stopped the feelings, but they’d intensified because now she had something to really be fearful of – losing Marcus. She had to try and stop thinking this way. Be glad about what she had, and give him some comfort in return.

“You’ve made me happy when I never thought I would be again,” she said, and he held her tighter to him in response.

The restaurant was still standing, which was at least one positive. Abby and Marcus stood outside the door, Marcus peering through the glass to see inside before they entered.

“Can’t see anything obvious,” he said.

“Okay, good.” Abby tried the door handle and it was locked, which didn’t necessarily mean anything these days. She put her key in, turned it, and pushed open the door.

Inside, everything was as they had left it the day before, which was both a relief and an anti-climax.

“This is good!” said Marcus, looking around. “Let’s get to work.”

\---

They were preparing today for the underfloor heating which was arriving in a couple of days. It had been a change of heart for Abby and meant taking up the floorboards the original contractors had laid down in the kitchen as well as the ones in the dining room. It was costing more but she was saving a lot by not paying Marcus, and the dining area in particular would look so much better without precious space taken up by radiators, no matter how attractive the ones she’d initially chosen were.

Marcus thought they could take the new boards up without damaging them and save some money, so Abby was bent over them using the technique he’d shown her for taking the nails out of the old window frame. Only one board had split so far out of the twenty they’d removed. She was lost in the task and jumped when Marcus made an exclamation of surprise.

“What is it?” she said, turning to look at him. He was in the far corner of the kitchen close to where it joined the office.

“There’s something here, beneath the boards.” He looked up at her his eyes wide.

Her stomach flipped as myriad possibilities flashed through her mind. “What is it?” she said again as she eased herself off her knees, walked over to him.

“There’s a box, some other stuff.”

Abby knelt by Marcus, peered into the space beneath the joists. There was an old tin biscuit box edged in gold, rusting and scratched, but the picture on the front was clear enough. Seven flags on a green background, the words _Canadian Expeditionary Force_ inscribed beneath.

“These are from World War One,” said Marcus, manoeuvring the tin carefully between the joists to get it out. “I remember my grandad had one. It’s probably still in mum’s house somewhere.”

“Wow, it’s over a hundred years old.” Abby took the tin from him, ran her fingers over the lid, feeling the dints in the lid and the sharp edges where the paint had rubbed away to bare metal and it must have been dropped or damaged. It was a beautiful thing, holding God knew what secrets.

“Are you going to open it?” said Marcus, his eyes bright with interest.

“Okay.” Abby laid it on one of the removed floorboards, put her fingers on the edges. “This feels like...I don’t even know!”

“Exciting!” said Marcus.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t have long fingernails so she used the tips of her fingers to prise the lid up. It squeaked as it opened. Marcus shuffled next to her, his head almost touching hers as they both looked down at the contents.

“Money,” he said, taking out a bundle of wrapped notes. The elastic band they’d been bound with disintegrated at his touch.

“Canadian dollars, unsurprisingly,” said Abby. She flicked through the colourful sheaf of notes. They were mainly small bills – two, five and ten dollars, the orange, blue and purple colours faded and grubby. They looked like they’d been handled many times. She brought them to her nose, inhaled the scent. Must and grease and old fish.

Marcus took out another bundle, examined each note. “These are from the eighties I think. It’s the birds of Canada series. I remember them because I wanted to collect them all but I never got higher than a twenty and that was supposed to be for me to buy some new clothes.”

He showed the back of each note to Abby. “Robin, belted kingfisher and osprey. The twenty was a loon, my favourite bird back then. Still is, actually.”

“So this belonged to the Blakes maybe? The money they got from their illegal activities.”

“Looks like it.”

“The contractors must have seen this when they took up the old boards. Why didn’t they tell me?”

“That’s a good question. Maybe they told someone in the village, someone who told them to leave it where it was.”

“Mrs Morgan maybe.”

Marcus shook his head. “I don’t think she’s behind this. She seemed pissed that she’d been nominated to lead that meeting.”

“True, and when I saw her a few weeks ago she said she was concerned for me and I thought she seemed genuine. I guess it was whoever was putting pressure on them to stop working for me.”

“Hmm.” Marcus was back at the opening in the floor, rummaging around. “There’s some weird kind of dust here, not sure what that is, and, oh... oh, fuck!”

“What?” said Abby, her heart pounding.

He pulled out something long and yellowish with a knobbly part at one end. A bone.

“Oh, jeez,” Abby said, staring at it.

“There’s more. They’re all in a big pile.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t touch them. They could be evidence.”

“Too late for that,” said Marcus as he pulled out another one.

Abby picked the first bone up, examined it. “Hang on,” she said, turning it over and over in her hands. “This isn’t human.”

“No?” said Marcus, looking up at her with dust in his dark hair.

“No. It’s way too big. I’d say moose maybe.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve butchered enough in my lifetime. It’s definitely an animal bone.”

“Oh, well that’s good I suppose,” said Marcus, sounding disappointed. “What the hell are they doing under the floor?”

“Hiding them from the police or the taxman maybe.”

“Yeah. That could be what this was for,” he said, pulling out a ragged piece of cloth. “The meat was wrapped in it and stored under the floor. These must have been pieces left at the time of the murders.”

“This is their hiding place, then,” said Abby, sitting back on her heels. “We’ve found it.”

“It doesn’t get us any closer to finding out what really happened here.”

“No, but it’s one mystery solved, and it makes it seem more real somehow, less like a story. These are things they’ve handled, touched.”

“What do you want to do with the box?”

“Put it back under the floorboards I guess. It would be nice to keep it on site where it belongs.”

“It won’t fit once we’ve got the insulation and the heating system down there.”

“Then I guess take it home for now. I’ll have to think about what to do.”

“Home to your place or mine?” he said, muddy eyes inscrutable.

If she said to his what would that mean? It was too soon to be merging their lives permanently, wasn’t it, although they’d barely spent a second apart the last few weeks, and that certainly hadn’t been a hardship. He probably didn’t mean anything like that.

“Erm, to mine, just because there’s more room.”

“Okay, we’ll drop it in later.”

“I was thinking of staying there tonight actually, to be closer to the restaurant, just in case.”

“Oh, I see. That’s a good idea.” He scrutinised her even more closely. “Not alone, though, right?”

“No, not alone.” She paused, waiting for him to acknowledge it which he did with a nod. “I’ve asked Mr O’Dowd to stay the night. Can’t wait to run my fingers through his stomach hair.”

Marcus stared at her for a second, and then he made a vomit gesture by sticking his fingers into his mouth. “That’s not an image I want in my mind,” he said.

“Me either, I don’t know why I said it!”

They laughed, and then got on with the rest of the floorboards. Abby kept a keener eye out for anything else of interest, but there was only dust and spiders.

By dusk they’d removed all the boards in the kitchen and office and filled the gaps with the insulation boards the heating would sit on top of. They tidied up and locked up and Abby felt more optimistic as they walked to her house. Maybe she’d been overly worried about something happening today, although there was time yet.

In the house she put the kettle on and Marcus stood in the kitchen looking down at himself. He was covered in dirt and dust and fibres of insulation.

“I could use a change of clothes,” he said.

Unlike Abby, he didn’t keep any spare clothes at her house because they stayed most of the time at his. Abby had her own pile in his bedroom now.

“Go and get some and bring that bottle of wine I left in the fridge. I think we’ve earned a glass of that tonight.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said, pulling a concerned face.

“I’ll lock the door after you and I won’t open it again until you’re back,” she said.

He stroked his chin a few times in contemplation then nodded slowly. “Okay. Don’t open it to anyone, even if they say they’re dying.”

“I won’t. I promise. I’ve got some salmon in the fridge. I’ll make it en croute, how does that sound?”

“My favourite. Sounds wonderful.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you. Hurry back!”

She watched as he pulled his red jacket back on, tucked his hair beneath his woolly hat. He smiled, then opened the door and shut it behind him.

“Lock it!” he said from outside, and Abby went to the door, made a show of locking it noisily and jiggling the handle. His silhouette disappeared down the path.

She returned to the kitchen, got the flour and butter out and started making her pastry. She put it in the fridge to rest and deboned her salmon. She had mixed the ingredients for the herb butter before she looked at the clock on the kitchen wall for the first time, surprised to see that half an hour had passed. Marcus should be back any second.

A scraping noise at the back door made her jump, and she walked over to it, fillet knife in hand. She listened carefully, all her senses focused on the door and whatever was behind it. Then she heard a mewing sound, realised it was Jasper, Mrs Byrne’s cat. He could probably smell the fish, for he always seemed to turn up when she was cooking it. She usually fed him the scraps, which was probably why.

“Hold on a minute, Jasper,” she said, going over to the kitchen counter and gathering up some of the deboned trimmings she wasn’t going to use. She went back to the door, unlocked it and opened it. The cat was sitting there looking up at her, brindled and blue-eyed, like butter wouldn’t melt, holding one tiger paw in the air, caught mid-scratch.

“You’re a naughty boy.” She gave him the scraps of salmon, stroked his soft head as he ate them. She glanced around the yard, realised she shouldn’t have opened the door, and closed it again, locking it back up.

At the counter, fillets sandwiched with the butter, waiting patiently. She rolled out the pastry; it looked good. Smooth, no cracks. This was going to be a great one. She wrapped the salmon in the pastry, set it on the baking tray. Another fifteen minutes had passed. Where was Marcus? It was ten minutes to his shack, ten minutes back, ten minutes to get some clothes and the wine. He should be back by now.

She busied herself making a salad, but her heart was in her throat and she felt sick like she had that morning. It was ridiculous because he hadn’t been gone long and there was no reason to worry, but the feeling settled. She could barely taste the vinaigrette she was whisking together.

An hour gone and now she was officially worried. Marcus had no cell phone so she couldn’t call him. She hovered by the front door, fingers grasping the key. She’d promised not to open it under any circumstances but he probably hadn’t anticipated this situation, plus she’d opened the back door carelessly and nothing had happened. She turned the key, opened the door, looked outside. Fog had crept up from the sea. She couldn’t see past her gate. The restaurant and the path down to the shore were cloaked by the dark night and the cold fog. If his light was still shining in his shack, she’d never see it from here.

Her watch said it had been one hour and five minutes now. There was no way he’d be this late back knowing that she was alone in the house and waiting for him. Something must have happened. Maybe he’d fallen on the rocks. God, what if he had?

There was only one thing for it, she had to go to his shack and find out. If he met her on the way and was angry with her for leaving the house then so be it; it was better than him lying hurt and her not going to look for him because she was too scared. No way was that happening. She shrugged into her jacket, got her bobble hat and a torch and went out, locking the door behind her. She was enveloped in the fog’s cold embrace, her chest becoming tighter, heart thumping in its constricted cage. They’d been worried about her getting into trouble, not Marcus, and she didn’t feel prepared for this. He’d better not be hurt, not because of her; she’d never forgive herself.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the hell is Marcus?

The fog closed in further as Abby walked, her torch bouncing off it, illuminating nothing but her own pale face should anyone else be stupid enough to be out in this and stumble across her. Heart thumping painfully, breath catching, she made her way carefully along the row of houses and to the path that skirted the cliff. The edge was close, she could feel the spray from the wind-blown sea as it was driven up the rocks and into the air around her, hear the water’s blustering roar, but she couldn’t see it. It was like being at the end of the earth. There was nothing after this but the blackness of the abyss.

Suddenly she could see herself like in a movie, walking perilously close to the edge, oblivious to the imminent danger because of the fog. The terrified audience watching and shouting at her to take care, her foot grazing the edge, the ankle still frail from her fall weeks ago twisting again on a rock, yielding, slipping, down, down until the rest of her body was following from momentum, hands grasping uselessly at the thin grass, fingernails scraped ragged against the rocks, the sea below rushing to greet her.

“For fuck’s sake!” she said out loud, annoyed with herself for these trips into fantasy land. She was going to have to talk to someone about this, a therapist, or Marcus at the very least. It wasn’t normal to have these kinds of thoughts all the time. She never used to. She used to have a more balanced state of mind. Two years ago she’d turned a corner, and everything had changed. Now she was possibly facing the same thing again. Her heart rate increased further.

She knew her way to the restaurant and the path to Marcus’s shack, had thought only yesterday she could do it in the dark and now she had to. Drawing on some of the faith she had in herself, she set off, looking down at the ground to make sure she was putting her feet on something solid. The paved road gave way to rocks and grass and she was on the right path. Her restaurant loomed suddenly, a dark shape like a black hole. She felt her way to the door, peered inside. She couldn’t see anything at all, not a shadow or a sliver of sea through the windows, just blackness.

She sighed, carried on. The grassy path down to the shore was slippery where it was steep and she descended side-footed, crab-like, searching for rocks she could anchor each step to. On the shore the tide was higher than she’d seen it, leaving only a strip of sand and mostly rocks to navigate. Why the hell didn’t Marcus live in a proper house like normal people?

She called out his name as she navigated the sucking sand and the rocks slimy with seaweed. If he had fallen out here, which seemed increasingly possible given the conditions she was facing, he could be anywhere, and she wouldn’t see him. Shining the torch around did nothing. There was no light ahead from the shack which didn’t mean it wasn’t on, just that the fog had swallowed it up. She found the now familiar route to his front door, the stone steps appearing one by one. She tried the door and it opened. Locking it was a new routine he’d acquired since this all started, and maybe he’d forgotten to do it when he left that morning, or he was inside still, getting ready. He’d be angry when he saw her. Well, tough.

The door creaked open and she went inside. The torch did a better job now that there wasn’t fog to bounce off and she used it to find the light switch, flicked it on. Yellow light in the hallway. His black coat hung on the peg but not the red one he’d been wearing. Into the living room, light on, nothing to see. The kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, all the same. No sign of Marcus. It was impossible to tell for sure, but she didn’t think he’d been here at all. The house had an undisturbed air. No dirty clothes in the laundry basket, the pile of clean ones looking untouched. He hadn’t been here, so where the hell was he?

Back out again, moving zig zag along what strip of sandy shore was visible. No sign of him, though if he’d been washed out to sea... no, don’t go there. Up the grassy path, trudging, head down. Would he be waiting for her at the house, frantic? She reached the top. Something screeched loudly and the wind whispered close to her ear.

“Fuck!” she said, hand on pounding heart. It was an owl probably. What was it doing out here?

She looked around to try and see it, a natural reaction futile in these conditions. Something caught her eye behind her, movement, pale light, barely visible, just a lighter shade of black. She headed back down the path towards it, found herself at the restaurant again. The light had been coming from the kitchen. Was Marcus in there? What was he doing?

She switched off her torch so she wouldn’t be seen, and with her heart in her mouth she crept up to the kitchen windows, peered inside, but there was no light there now. Certain she hadn’t imagined it she went to the front door, and there it was, hanging in mid-air like some kind of tiny spirit, a will-o’-the-wisp. It danced around, alighted briefly on a pale face. It was the slightest of glimpses, but she’d recognise that face anywhere, had been up close and personal with it hundreds of times now. Marcus. Her stomach somersaulted and her heart thumped. He seemed low down, like he was sitting, and she couldn’t be certain, but she thought his eyes had been closed. Shit!

The light disappeared again. Abby took the opportunity to try the door handle. It was unlocked. She eased it open, took a few steps inside, past where the reception desk would be. She was listening all the time for sounds of anyone else in the room. There was a scuffling sound, like rats scurrying. She paused. Voices then, whispering, sounding like they were in the kitchen. Her eyes weren’t yet used to the dark, but she could remember where Marcus had been sitting. She headed in that direction, walking slowly, as quietly as possible.

Her next step landed on nothing, and she wasn’t expecting that. Her stomach lurched at the realisation there was space where there should be floorboard, and her mind flashed to her fantasy fall off the cliff, although part of her knew that was impossible. This all happened in a nanosecond, and then she was falling forwards, her foot caught on something, trapped. She landed face down on the floor, the breath knocked out of her, a white pain shooting through her body. What the fuck? Her torch skittered away god knew where.

A commotion, then; at least two sets of footsteps clomping into the dining room, the light shining on her. It was a torch. Not a will-o’-the-wisp you idiot she thought, looking up stupidly and getting blinded.

“Who are you?” she said, and then: “Marcus!”

She tried to move her foot, but it was caught, and she thought maybe she’d twisted her knee because pain bloomed so strongly it made her feel sick and cry out. They were men, the ones with the torch, whispering in baritones. She figured maybe it was good they didn’t want her to hear their voices, meant they weren’t going to kill her.

“Who are you? What do you want?” she said again, but there was no reply. She could vaguely make out their dark shapes as they loomed towards her and her heart raced out of control. She tried to move again but couldn’t. She was trapped, blinded, unable to defend herself. She readied herself for a blow, but none came. Instead, the shadows stepped over her and a second later she heard the door bang. Had they left her here? What were they doing?

“Marcus!” she said again, greeted only by silence. Fucking fuck!

Okay. She had to get out of whatever she was caught in. Her eyes had become more accustomed now and she could make out the shape of Marcus slumped against the wall between the dining room and kitchen. She felt around her. Her top half was lying on the floorboards, but her legs were somehow underneath that, as though the boards had been taken up. They hadn’t got as far as the dining room with their work earlier so there was no reason for this. Her mind couldn’t make sense of it but nevertheless it was clearly the truth.

She pictured the layout beneath the floorboards. There were horizontal joists and then gaps. She must have caught her foot between a joist and a floorboard. That was good. She could get out of that. She twisted her ankle, ignoring the searing pain that shot up and down her leg. Some movement, but not much.

It took a lot of wiggling and jiggling back and forth and a whole lot of gritting her teeth but eventually she worked her foot free. She didn’t dare put any weight on her leg, so she crawled over to the shape of Marcus.

“Marcus, it’s me,” she said, feeling for his face, stroking the side of it. There was something damp and sticky there. Oh, God!

She crawled around the floor, found her torch, returned to Marcus, shining it on him with trepidation. There was a bruise on his temple, dark bloody tracks down his cheek, the substance thick, sticky, congealing. She put her hand in front of his mouth, felt his breath on it, so he was breathing at least.

“Marcus.” She stroked his other cheek, pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “Marcus, it’s me, it’s Abby.”

He groaned, opened his eyes slowly. “Mmm,” he mumbled.

“There you are.” She smiled lovingly, and he frowned, wincing as the cut on his forehead opened again. Abby pulled a tissue from her jacket, held it to the wound. “Take your time,” she said.

“What happened?” he said, opening his eyes more fully.

“I don’t know exactly. There were two men here, and you’ve been hit on the head by the look of it. Don’t you remember anything?”

“Not sure,” he muttered, his voice sounding thick and heavy.

“Let me get you some water.”

Abby crawled into the kitchen, dragging her injured leg painfully behind her. Every slide, every stop, felt like being stabbed. She hoped it wasn’t too damaged as they had to somehow get out of here and Marcus wasn’t in a fit state either. She hauled herself up using the work bench for leverage, stood on one leg at the temporary sink and filled a mug with water. She debated whether hopping or crawling would be her best move, decided hopping would risk spilling the water, and slid back to the floor. On her return she held the mug to Marcus’s lips and he took a sip.

“Why you crawling?” he said, his voice sounding more normal now his throat had been lubricated.

“I fell on my way in, got my leg trapped. I think I twisted my knee.”

“No,” he said, frowning. “Does it hurt?”

“Like a mother.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault.”

“Clumsy, like on the rocks,” he said, attempting a smile that made him wince again.

Abby peered at his wound more closely. It was bleeding again. She took the tissue, wet it with some water from the mug and cleaned away some of the blood as gently as she could. The wound didn’t look too deep, not that she was an expert.

“Some steri-strips might hold that,” she said.

“First aid kit,” said Marcus.

“Yeah, I think we left it in the kitchen.” She set off crawling, found it and brought it back.

“Sorry,” he said again.

“Stop saying that; this is not your fault.” She cleaned his wound again then opened the kit, found the steri-strips and stuck them over it. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t know, I think, maybe.” He reached up, felt the back of his head, sucked in a breath. “Yeah, there.”

Abby made him bend his head so she could see. Torch gripped between her teeth she parted his hair where he’d indicated. There was no blood, but a large bump had formed, smooth and egg shaped beneath her gentle fingers. “They must have hit you with something, but it hasn’t cut the skin.”

“That’s a positive I guess.” Marcus seemed more alert now and Abby relaxed a little. A bump and a cut weren’t too bad, although she knew from numerous first aid courses she’d been on over the years that she had to watch out for concussion.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you for...” He paused, frowning, then he reached up, cupped her chin, turned her face from side to side, made her shine the torch closer to herself.

“What?” said Abby, confused.

“Your face. There’s a bruise coming up on your cheek and your lip is fat here.” He touched her top lip carefully and Abby realised for the first time that there was pain elsewhere on her body not only her leg.

“Oh, I fell flat on my face. Is it bad? Do I still have my teeth?” She bared them to him, and he peered into her mouth, a smile gracing his own much thinner lips.

“Yes, you’re still beautiful, even more so with the bruises.”

“I wasn’t clumsy before,” she said, settling next to him. “One of the floorboards near the entrance is missing. I caught my foot in it.”

“One of them is missing? How?”

“I don’t know. Let me see.” She shone her torch towards the door and was shocked to see not just one floorboard missing but a number. A couple of metres in from the front door there was a hole in the floor. She was lucky she’d tripped on the edge and fallen onto the remaining boards, because if she’d fallen into the space she could have hit her head on a joist and knocked all her teeth out or worse. A shiver ran up and down her spine at the thought.

“What the hell is going on?” said Marcus.

“There were two men here like I said. When you didn’t come back from changing your clothes I waited and then I came out to look for you. I looked in here but there was no one or so I thought, so I went to your shack, but you weren’t there. On the way back I saw a kind of light and it shone on you briefly then left.”

“There WERE men!” said Marcus, the sudden remembrance animating his features. “I saw a light too when I was going to the shack. It was in the kitchen so I came to check. I remember looking through the window and the light went from there into the dining room.”

“Did you see their faces? Do you know who it was?”

“No. When the light returned it shone right into my eyes, I remember that now. I was blinded, and I remember staggering back then nothing after that.”

“Maybe you fell outside and they brought you in here.”

“Maybe.”

“Although why would you have two wounds in opposite areas?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember anything else until I heard you saying my name. I thought we were at home. I figured I’d fallen asleep and you were telling me dinner was ready.”

“God, the dinner, yes. Seems like a lifetime ago. The men came over to look at me when I fell but they didn’t say anything and then they walked around me and left.”

“Bastards leaving you injured like that.”

“Guess they didn’t want to be caught doing whatever they were doing. Speaking of...let’s see what they were doing.”

Abby crawled over to the hole in the floor, her face throbbing now as her blood pressure increased. She shone her torch into the recess, couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Oh, my God!” she said.

“What?” said Marcus anxiously. “What’s down there?”

“The reason for everything, I suspect.”

Marcus crawled on his hands and knees towards her, peered into the hole. “Jesus!” he said, putting his hand on his heart. “I think you’re right.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret of Shack 309 is revealed, and Abby and Marcus have a proper heart to heart.

“That’s no moose,” said Abby, looking down on the unmistakeable bones of a human, the upper torso and skull visible, laid out in perfect anatomical position. She lay on her front, head in the hole, and shone the torch backwards beneath the remaining floorboards. “The rest of the skeleton looks to be intact as well. I can see pelvis, finger bones, femur. Presumably the lower leg and feet are there as well though the torchlight doesn’t reach that far.”

She shuffled back, turned, and sat up. Marcus was still staring at the bones.

“This is the same area the bodies were found.”

“Yes, just to the right of that. They were further towards the kitchen.” Abby shone the torch in an arc showing where she’d traced the outline of possible old blood weeks before when they’d first seen the words on the wall.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Marcus, stroking his chin as he contemplated the hole.

“That it’s Bill Blake?” Abby saw him nod.

“He’s been here all along.”

“Yes.” Tears welled in Abby’s eyes and she let out a sob. It was unexpected this upswell of emotion, but once it had started there seemed to be no stopping it and she found herself crying loudly.

“Hey,” said Marcus, pulling her into his arms and kissing her head. “What’s the matter?”

“Just thinking of him alone down there. People thought he’d killed his family, and he was a victim all along,” she sniffed.

“We don’t know for sure, but yeah, it looks like that.”

“It’s just sad that’s all.”

“I know, I know.”

He rocked her like she was a child, and it was comforting. She guessed she needed it after the night she’d had, all the stress and worry over Marcus, and then this.

“Thank you,” she said when she felt she’d cried long enough. Two years with no tears and now they seemed to be coming thick and fast.

“We need to get out of here,” said Marcus. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Not on this leg, no, but I could hop maybe if you support me.”

“I’ll carry you; it’s not far to your place.”

“Marcus you’re injured yourself.”

He shrugged. “I feel better now.”

“Nevertheless, you’ve been unconscious. We need to get a doctor and the police I suppose.”

“I doubt we’ll get anyone to come out from White Rock in this fog, except maybe the Mounties.”

“I’ll call.” Abby took out her cell phone. “No signal.”

“The fog will have cut off the signal. We’ll have to call from your house.”

“Yeah.” Abby gripped Marcus as he helped her stand on her good leg.  
“Wait. The men must have been here for the bones, right? What if they come back for them? We’ll lose the evidence.”

“We could take pictures.”

“We could, but that’s not going to prove who they belong to.”

“True. I don’t see what we can do about it. We can take pictures, call the Mounties from home and let them deal with it.”

Abby stared down at the bones. Bill Blake, if that’s who it was, deserved justice. He may have been an unpleasant character, a wife beater even, but he wasn’t a murderer, and he should be identified, and the truth be known.

“We can’t leave him here, Marcus. We can’t allow this to be covered up again. Even if you don’t think he deserves justice then his wife and children do. They deserve for their real killer to be exposed.”

“I agree the truth needs to come out, but we can’t take him with us!”

“No, so we’ll have to stay here.”

She’d predicted the look Marcus gave her the moment the thought had entered her head, and he didn’t disappoint. He looked as though he’d reeled his line in expecting cod and the shark from Jaws was on the end instead. He shook his head, his mouth forming words that never made it out.

“We can’t,” he said at last.

“Why not?”

“Why not? You’re injured for one thing, and what if the men do come back? What do we do then?”

“We make it clear we’re here, get the generator going, put a light on. They won’t come back if they think someone’s inside.”

“If they’re desperate they’ll do anything, Abby. This is madness!”

“No, it’s the only thing to do. I don’t think they’ll come back but if they do we’ll be ready. We’ve got plenty of tools, Marcus. We can arm ourselves.”

“Jesus!” he said, but she could tell from the way his shoulders slumped that he was going to give in. “We’ve no food, no heating.”

“We can make hot drinks and I think there are some cookies left and we still have part of a roll of insulation. We can snuggle up together.”

“Armed with a saw and a hammer!”

“Yes.” She smiled tentatively at him and he sighed.

“You know how I said earlier you were the best thing that ever happened to me?” He put his arm around her but didn’t bring her close. He looked down his long nose instead.

“Erm, yeah.” Abby looked back up at him. His lips curled slowly into a smile.

“Well, I may be crazy, and you definitely are, but you’re still the best thing.” He brought her into him then, put both arms around her. “Let’s do this.”

They stayed in their hug for a minute, and then separated. Marcus went into the kitchen to make up the hot drinks and get the cookies. Abby hopped over to the insulation, pulled a section out. When Marcus returned, he set the mugs down then brought an array of tools over.

“I’m going to put the work bench and some of the boards against the door so no one can get in or if they try we’ll at least have advance notice from the noise they’ll make.”

“Great idea.”

When everything was prepared, they settled against the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. Abby pulled the insulation over them and tucked it in. It was surprisingly cosy. The generator hummed, loud at first, but gradually becoming background music. The two arc lights that were hooked up to it were bright but Marcus had angled them towards the door and windows so they’d be seen and it left him and Abby in a shadow.

Marcus put one arm around Abby and held his mug of tea in his other hand. “How’s the leg feeling?”

“Painful.”

“Do you want me to look at it?”

“There’s no point; there’s nothing we can do right now.”

“True.”

Abby sipped her coffee. It felt so good sliding down her throat, spreading throughout her body like the warm embrace of a good friend. She checked her phone again, still no signal.

“I’ll keep checking. The sooner we report this the sooner they’ll be here when they can.” She put the phone back in her pocket. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you this, but why don’t you have a cell phone?”

“I used to, when I was on my travels, mainly so I could keep in touch with mum, but after she died I figured I didn’t need one. There wasn’t exactly anyone to call, and I’m trying not to have things in my life that I don’t need.”

“Like that guy who wrote Walden – Thoreau?”

“They hadn’t invented cell phones back when he was around, but yeah, I suppose.”

“I know they hadn’t!” Abby batted him on the arm. “I mean, you’re trying to live like him, a simpler life?”

“He felt that we humans didn’t live real lives, that we rushed about filling our time with unnecessary tasks which gave our lives no quality and we were disconnected from our place in nature - and this was back in 1845 so imagine the changes since then and how we live now! He said he wanted to make a life of equal simplicity and innocence with nature and that’s why he had his house by the pond in the woods, so every day he was able to observe nature and also be a part of it. First thing in the morning was his favourite time of day, and it’s mine too.

“When mum first got ill, and I came back here, I couldn’t settle in her house. I’d lived a nomadic lifestyle for so many years I felt cooped up, imprisoned. That’s when I decided to live in the shack and do it up myself. There’s a pleasure in working with your hands, in being surrounded by the things that you’ve made, in knowing you’re having a low impact on your environment. I get up in the morning – this was before I had you to distract me.” He grinned at Abby. “And I sit on my stoop with my tea and I watch a hundred different sunrises, and the sea is never the same and I get to know its moods. The birds have their unique calls and even amongst the flocks there are individuals that I’ve got to know. I don’t feel separate or insignificant or lonely when I’m doing that, I feel a part of it, connected.”

“It sounds beautiful, and it is, but I think most people don’t have the means to live like that and it probably seems like a fantasy to them.”

“Yes, because as a society or through politics or for whatever reason we’ve moved so far away from the land and from nature that it’s hard to see a way back, collectively, not unless some kind of apocalypse happens, and then we’ll all be forced back to basics. I probably made it sound romantic but it’s not an easy life to choose. You’ve already experienced some of the deprivations like the cold and having to light the fire every morning and there’s no TV, limited access to things others take for granted.”

It was fascinating hearing Marcus talk like this about his thoughts and why he lived the way he did. It didn’t answer some of the fundamental questions Abby had, though, about what he was seeking, and his loneliness, because he might say he felt connected to nature but she didn’t think he felt the same way about humans or his place in society.

“Does it actually make you happier, though, overall? Because you said when we were out on the boat that you were sometimes unhappy, but I got the feeling that was more often than not, and the happy times were the rare ones.”

He stared towards the light, didn’t answer her straight away. Abby finished her coffee, waited.

“I’m happier now than I’ve been in a long time, maybe ever.” He turned then to look at her. “I have to ask myself why that is, and the obvious answer is you, because I’ve met you, but that also makes me wonder if I’m relying on an external source, i.e. you, for my happiness, and that worries me sometimes and it’s also a lot to put on the other person.”

“It is, but don’t you think that a connection with nature can only take you so far, don’t you NEED a connection with another human being as well, even if it’s just the one?”

“There’s definitely an underlying loneliness living like that, because there aren’t many people who want to live such a pared down life, friend or otherwise, and you can’t talk to nature. Well, you can, but it doesn’t talk back. I’m not much of a talker as you know and I’ve led a life where there’ve been times of total solitude and it does get to you after a while, mentally. Maybe you’re right. I think that I spent a long time exploring the connection between people and the land they live on but maybe forgot about the people themselves, and their connections to each other.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing someone, relying on them, Marcus.”

“It doesn’t freak you out that you mean so much to me, even though we’ve only known each other a short time?”

It seemed like Abby’s whole body reacted to his words, her stomach flipping, her heart thumping, warm blood rushing through her veins making her tingle. “I, erm, sometimes I feel like it should do but no, it doesn’t. I wondered myself early on, before we really got together, if I was clinging to you, if we were becoming dependent on each other. You appeared like a lifebuoy in a stormy sea and I grabbed onto you and I thought if I let you go, I’d drown. I’ve always been independent, so that was a new thing for me to consider really.”

“You’re the most independent person I’ve ever met.”

Abby smiled ruefully. “I don’t know anymore. Jake and I were together a long time and we had a good relationship but it was definitely a modern one in that we didn’t see a lot of each other, we were filling our lives like you said earlier. We were happy like that, and it was a choice we made, that kind of lifestyle. I needed him don’t get me wrong and we fulfilled things in each other but I don’t know now if we ever really knew each other, not deep down, not fundamentals. We surfed along happily on the surface and it worked.

“You barely tell me anything about yourself, but we spend so much time together and I feel like I know you despite not really knowing you. I don’t know if that makes sense. I feel connected to you. I feel like, and this is such a cliché I can’t even believe I’m going to say it, but I feel like you are a part of me. It’s not like you complete me it’s more like together we’re just bigger, better.”

“I feel like that too,” said Marcus, grabbing her hand and caressing it. “For years I knew there was something I was missing and it’s not you so much as me AND you, what we are together, and nobody else has ever made me feel like that. I guess I’ve been waiting for you all along.”

“We’re like the middle of a Venn diagram,” said Abby, laughing because the conversation was overwhelming in some ways, like the way she felt about Marcus. Her attraction to him was stronger than she wanted to admit even to herself.

“Will you stay here with me?” he said, stroking the side of her face with the backs of his fingers.

“I already told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know, but I mean forever. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Are you asking me to marry you? Here in my unfinished restaurant, with a dead body two metres away?” She chuckled because all of this seemed crazy and yet right somehow.

Marcus guffawed. “What could be more romantic?” He wiped a tear from his eye, which Abby wasn’t sure was of laughter or because of their previous conversation. “I would marry you, if that’s what you wanted, but it doesn’t have to be that. Just me and you, together forever.”

“Now that is romantic.” She took his hand, kissed it. “Remember in the graveyard when you asked me if someone could put up with you for forty years?”

“Hmm, I do, yes.”

“I think I could manage that.” She put her hand on the side of his face, stroked his cheek with her thumb.

“I think I’d be happy with that,” Marcus said, and he kissed her, arms wrapped tight around her, one hand stroking her braid.

“You give the best hugs for someone who doesn’t hug,” she said when they parted.

“I guess my mother taught me more than I realised.”

“I would have loved to have met her.”

“She would have adored you. My dad as well.”

“What was he like?”

“I think of him as very much of this landscape I suppose. Have you ever noticed that rock that’s just below the fort, it kind of stands alone?”

“Yeah, you can’t get to it because the tide never goes far enough out.”

“That’s right. It used to be part of an arch, but the rest fell into the sea before I was born. We call it the sentinel rock locally. I think of my dad like that rock. He always stood straight, like quite stiff really. He thought it was important to be proper, you know, especially cause most of his time he was on the sea, fishing and battling the waves. When he was home, he tried to be different to that. He never gave me a kiss or a hug or said he loved me or anything like that but he didn’t have to because I knew he did, it was in everything he did for us. He was steadfast, reliable, protective.”

Abby nodded, trying to keep a smile from her face because Marcus was describing his dad in the same way she’d thought about him, as a rock - strong, patient and reserved.

“You’re like him, then,” she said, and a warm blush came to his cheeks.

“Do you think so?”

“Yeah, except you’re able to kiss and hug and say that you love someone.”

“I’m sure he said those things to my mum in private. They were very much in love.”

“That must have been nice. A lovely upbringing.”

“Was yours not like that?”

“My parents divorced when I was fourteen, so that was a thing, although it wasn’t bitter. They just fell out of love I guess. I went through a rebellious phase because of it but I got over it.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow and looking at her fascinated. “What did you do?”

“I mainly went out a lot with my friends, sneaking into bars and drinking. I could never get in even with fake ID because I was like five foot nothing back then.”

“You’re not much taller now,” said Marcus, smirking.

“Hey, an extra couple of inches can make all the difference you know.”

“I’ve never needed to worry about that,” he said, his smirk widening so much it took over his entire face.

“So modest.”

Marcus shrugged. “When you’ve got it.”

“Hmm, right, well. My friends would sneak me in through the back door. Once I was inside no one cared I was underage, until I got too drunk. I got taken home in a police car one too many times and my grades were slipping and I realised I was ruining my life if I carried on.”

“And both your parents are dead now?”

“Yeah, they both got cancer around about the same time weirdly. It brought them together towards the end. Dad had remarried but mum hadn’t. There were a few men but mainly once I’d left home and was married myself. They died within a few months of each other just before I turned thirty.”

“I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, eh?”

“So they say.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. Abby’s knee was throbbing and felt tight within her jeans. She hoped she hadn’t broken her leg. She didn’t think so, probably just twisted it like she had her ankle. She looked up at Marcus. His eyes had closed and his head had drooped. She didn’t know whether to let him rest or wake him up. It had been a few hours at least since he’d been knocked out, but she seemed to recall you were supposed to monitor someone with possible concussion for twenty-four hours. She nudged him gently.

“Mmm,” he mumbled.

“Sorry. I don’t know if you should sleep cause of your head.”

“I was just resting my eyes.”

“Who do you think is behind all this?” She gestured to the bones, figuring this would be a good discussion to have to keep them both awake.

“Obviously someone who was around thirty years ago and is still here now.”

“Is that a lot of people?”

“Everyone in the town who’s over thirty. We’ve had a few incomers over the years, but they’ve come and gone. For the most part the people are the same.”

“We have to assume it was someone aged at least twenty back then. A kid wouldn’t be able to kill four people.”

“No, and there must have been more than one attacker. How did they subdue all four of them at once?”

“It would be impossible. I’d say you’d need three people really, unless they were drugged or something.”

“So two or three people who are strong or were back then. Aged between, what, fifty and eighty? Assuming male then that leaves maybe twenty, twenty-five people in the right age group.”

“Who did Blake hang around with?”

“No one really. He wasn’t well liked, except as the provider of illicit goods. I was a kid, so I don’t know for sure.”

“How are they getting in and out of locked premises?” said Abby, thinking about all the windows that were opened in her house, and the words painted on the wall of the restaurant. “If they’re in their seventies now they can’t be going through windows surely?”

“It was a mystery back then as well. I know I said a lot of it was people themselves or kids but there were definitely genuine cases of mischief or whatever you want to call it.”

“Mr Morgan found the bodies.”

“Yes, and he was really shaken up. I can still see his face. I can’t see it being him, and he’s dead now.”

“Mrs Morgan’s small enough to fit through a window,” said Abby.

Marcus laughed. “She has a high voice though. You said it was two men here tonight.”

“True. What about Cadogan? He’s had plenty to say about all this, and he’s been the most vociferous in trying to get me to leave.”

“He has. My dad said he was always a troublemaker, him and his friends.”

“Anders and O’Neill.”

“Yes.”

“That’s three people, Marcus.” Abby’s skin broke out in goosebumps. Were they onto something?

“And Tom Anders is a locksmith.”

“Fuck! So he is! I bet he’s got keys to most of the houses here.”

“For sure.” Marcus’s eyes were wide and bright, glinting in the reflected light of the lamps. “They wouldn’t need to be young and fit to get in if they had keys.”

“Why would they kill the Blakes?”

“That I don’t know.”

“They obviously didn’t want us to find the bones, that’s why they tried to scare me off.”

“And why they were here tonight. Once they realised you weren’t going to leave, they had no choice but to come and get them.”

“But the shack’s been empty for years, why not move him before?”

“Maybe they didn’t want to, I don’t know. I mean at first it would be unpleasant, wouldn’t it, and then maybe as time passed and they’d done a good job of scaring people away they just figured it was best to leave him lying here.”

“How are we going to get them to tell the truth?”

“That’s for the police to do.”

“Do you have faith in them? Things have been covered up here for years.”

“We don’t know who was involved. It’s for the authorities to deal with, not us.” He looked at her sternly and Abby felt an immediate urge to do the exact opposite of what he wanted. That had always been a fault she’d had, a contrariness she sometimes struggled to keep under control.

“Hmm,” she said noncommittally.

“I mean it.”

She pulled a face at him and he pulled one back, turning it into a smile, making her smile too.

“We’ll see,” she said, just to have the last word.

\---

Two cups of coffee later and after peeing in the bucket they usually kept the nails in, Abby felt wired and restless. Her legs were jumping which made pain shoot up the sore one.

“Are you okay?” said Marcus, who was lying on his side next to her, his head resting on another piece of insulation.

“Just want the dawn to come so we can get this all sorted out.”

“The sun will rise remember.”

“We won’t see it in this goddamned weather.” She took out her phone. Still no signal.

Marcus put his hand out from beneath the insulation, pulled her down so she was lying next to him. He put his arm around her and she rested her head on his chest. He stroked her hair rhythmically and it was soothing, partly.

“I’m going to have to get some work soon,” he said quietly. “I’ve been living off savings from the jobs I’ve had in the past and money my mum left me, but that won’t last forever.”

“Would you want another teaching job? Are there opportunities for that here?”

“The high school in George’s Cove is always asking me to take some hours. It’s only the next bay along. There’s the book, I guess. I need to pull that together.”

“The book you won’t let me read.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to read it. At the moment it’s in quite a raw state, a lot of my deep ocean thoughts that are... well some of them are pretty dark.”

“I know dark thoughts. I have them a lot, in fact since I’ve been here they’ve got worse.”

“I remember you saying something about that when we were in the boat.”

“I thought once I was happy again they’d go away, or diminish at least but they’re getting stronger. When I was looking for you earlier I saw myself falling off the cliff and into the sea below.”

“How did you feel when that happened?”

“When I had the thought?”

“No, when you imagined you were falling.”

That was an interesting question Abby hadn’t considered before. “Erm, I guess I was scared. I didn’t want to die.”

“So they’re not about wanting to die or being attracted to the idea of death?”

“I don’t know. I gutted you in my mind once.” The words were out before she’d considered their possible consequences.

“What?”

She raised her head to look at him. He seemed more confused than shocked.

“Just to get at your secrets, back when I thought you were crooked in the traditional sense.”

“Aah. What came out?”

“Black blood but no secrets.”

“Fuck!” He laughed. “There’s no one else like you, Abby.”

“No. Thank God.”

“Is it possible these thoughts have increased because you actually feel safe here, like you’ve relaxed, and it has allowed you to express them more? I mean safe emotionally, obviously, not physically, because, you know...” He nodded towards the hole in the floor and the bones of Bill Blake.

“That’s an interesting idea. I don’t know, I’ll have to ponder it.”

“Well we’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yeah.”

“There are things I’d rather be doing,” he said, his hand working beneath her sweater, coming to rest on the warm skin of her stomach.

Despite where they were and the situation they were in Abby felt desire start to burn.

“When we’re home,” she said.

“That feels like too long to wait.” His voice was a murmur in her ear, and he pressed his lips there, kissed her softly.

“You’ll have to.”

“We’re so good together.”

“We are.”

“The best.”

“Yeah?”

“By a mile. I love making love with you.”

“You’d better stop that,” she whispered as his hand crept further, fingers tracing the line of her bra.

Marcus ignored her, rolled closer to her, the insulation squashing up between them. There was a huge bang on the door, and they both literally jumped.

“Who’s that?” cried Abby.

A familiar voice answered that question. “Is anyone in there?”

“That’s Mr O’Dowd!” said Abby.

“What does he want?”

“You don’t think he’s—”

“He’d hardly announce himself.”

“True.”

“I’ll go and see. Stay there.”

Marcus got up, walked across the room, avoiding the hole in the floor. He stood behind the work bench, shouted back.

“It’s Marcus Kane. What do you want?”

“I saw the lights on and I thought it was odd. They’s never usually on this time o’ the mornin’.”

“What are you doing? It’s not even dawn.”

“I’m going to the store, gotta get ready for the day.”

Marcus turned to look at Abby. “What do you think?”

“We have to get help somehow.”

“Okay.” He turned back to the door. “Can you wait there a minute, please.”

He moved the work bench and the floorboards and then unlocked the door. Mr O’Dowd peered in, raised his eyebrows almost to the roof when he saw Abby lying in the makeshift bed.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, his eyes bright and sly.

“You didn’t,” said Marcus sharply. “We need you to call the police in White Rock, tell them to come here as soon as they can.”

“Why? What you two done?” O’Dowd saw the hole, his eyes widening when he presumably caught a glimpse of what was in it. “Lord thunderin’ Jesus!” he said, some ancient Irish linguistic memory coming out in his moment of shock.

“We discovered it last night but we’ve had no phone signal so we couldn’t alert anyone. Can you call the police and report it?”

“I’ll do that now the once.” He leaned forward on his toes, heels off the ground, trying to see further into the hole.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Marcus, stepping towards him so O’Dowd had to step back or end up nose to nose with him.

“Yes, b’y.”

Marcus closed the door on him. “That will be all round the village faster than a scalded cat,” he said, heading towards Abby.

“Yes. Let the fun begin.” She held out her hand to Marcus and he helped her stand.

Outside the windows a pink orange glow lit the bottom of the clouds like a flame beneath a pan, the shadow of it falling on the sea making it blush. Dawn had come at last, and the fog had lifted.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! In our final visit to Red Fort Cove the bones are identified, and the truth revealed. Abby and Marcus look to the future.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police were the first official people to arrive just over an hour after Mr O’Dowd called them. The old fox had returned five minutes after he’d left to inform Abby and Marcus of what he’d done and over the next twenty minutes or so other villagers had arrived, attracted to the corpse like the flies that must once too have sought it out. They’d peered one after another through the window in the door until Marcus had moved the coat stand in front of it to block their view. One adventurous soul had managed to navigate the steep rocks at the rear of the building to peer through the large windows, but Abby didn’t think they’d be able to see much as Marcus had turned the lights off and the inside of the restaurant was still relatively dark.

The doctor from White Rock, Doctor Wilson, arrived while the Mounties were questioning Abby and Marcus. After they were released from their interrogation, she pronounced Marcus fit and well, but Abby had dislocated her knee. Doctor Wilson performed a reduction which meant popping it back into place, an operation that sounded benign, like how the British ‘pop’ to the store for milk and biscuits. “Just popping your knee back in, ducky,” she’d said cheerfully before inflicting pure agony on Abby. She’d survived it by passing some of the pain onto Marcus when he’d held her hand and she’d gripped him so tightly his fingers were concertinaed, causing him to cry out louder than she had. Luckily, they weren’t broken.

They were banished to Abby’s house while the forensic investigation went ahead and they’d showered and eaten the salmon en croute she’d prepared what seemed a lifetime ago but wasn’t even twenty-four hours. The bright start to the day hadn’t lasted and rain was hammering the windows. It was cosy in the house, however, and Abby was lying on the sofa with her leg in a splint, Marcus next to her stroking her hair, when the police arrived as the afternoon started to fade.

Sergeant Quirk took a seat opposite them. A tall, rangy man he had a thin face and high cheekbones. His nose was even longer than Marcus’s, sticking out over his top lip, guarding the bushy moustache that lay like a waterlogged beaver beneath. His dark eyes were large compared to the rest of his features and they bored into Abby and Marcus now, flicking from one to the other suspiciously. He took off his grey cap, revealing close-cropped black hair with a small circle of grey near the top, making him look monk-like. Abby thought he could use a good meal. She’d invite him once the restaurant was open. Droplets fell from his cap onto the wooden floor with a steady drip.

“Can I get you a hot drink?” she said, swinging her legs around so she could sit up.

“That’s kind, thank you. Coffee, please. Black.”

“I’ll make them.” Marcus got up and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sergeant Quirk looked at Abby. “Restaurant then eh?”

“That’s right.”

“Not that McDonalds muck I hope?”

“No. Local produce – fish, wild meat.”

“Sounds just like what this place needs, though I s’pose you didn’t expect bones beneath the floor eh? Can’t cook with them!” He grinned, showing large white teeth.

Abby smiled. “No, although we found some old moose bones beneath the kitchen floor.”

“Yes, yer man there said.” He sat forward, his knees high enough for him to rest his notebook on. “I wish you well with it.”

“Thank you. You must come along once I’ve opened. On the house”

“Oh, I can’t do that though I appreciate the gesture. I’ll come but I’ll pay my dues. The job, you know.”

“Of course.” Abby was pleased with his comments about the restaurant. Other than everything Marcus said they were the first positive remarks she’d received since she’d arrived in Red Fort Cove.

Marcus returned and handed out the drinks. “What news do you have for us, Sergeant?” he said.

“I’ll deal with the bones first. It’s only been a few hours obviously, but the preliminary findings from the forensic team are that the bones are those of a mature male over the age of thirty. The remains do not appear to have been moved or relocated since the body was placed in the cavity. There were some coins and a banknote beneath the skeleton, probably from clothing that has mostly disintegrated and these were issued in the nineteen eighties so we can determine that the body was not placed beneath the floorboards before that time. I believe you found some currency yourselves?”

“Yes. It was in a tin near the moose bones,” said Abby.

Marcus went over to the sideboard, got the tin and handed it to the sergeant who placed it in a plastic evidence bag. “We figured it was float money or something like that belonging to the Blakes,” he said. “Do you know the history of the family?”

“I know some, but I’d be interested to hear what you know.”

Marcus told Sergeant Quirk everything he knew about the Blakes and their enterprises both legal and illegal.

“Do you think the bones are those of William Blake?” said Abby to Quirk when Marcus had finished his tale.

“It’s impossible to say right now. There is partial tissue on a couple of the bones and forensics say the chance of DNA is good if we can find something to match it to.”

“He had a sister, last heard of up in Labrador City I believe,” said Marcus. “She’d be in her seventies now if she’s still alive, but she might have had children.”

“We’ll look into that.” Quirk made neat notes on his pad.

“I don’t see who else it could be,” said Abby, impatient for the truth to be revealed. “He was killed and hidden there so suspicion would be away from the real murderer.”

Sergeant Quirk’s large eyes narrowed as he screwed up his face. “Perhaps, but it could equally be another man who was killed by Blake and placed there.”

“One of Aurora’s lovers, perhaps,” said Abby.

“But no one else was reported missing that I know of,” said Marcus.

“It’s best not to indulge in idle speculation,” said Quirk primly.

Abby and Marcus looked at each other. That was them told!

Abby folded her arms, gave Quirk a determined stare. “Are you going to at least look into the suspects we told you about? Bill Cadogan and his friends.”

“We will be interviewing everyone in Red Fort Cove and probably all the settlements from here to White Rock. As of half an hour ago we’ve been unable to locate Messrs Cadogan, Anders and O’Neill.”

“They’ve done a runner!” said Abby triumphantly.

“They’re probably out fishing,” replied Quirk more soberly, but Abby’s bubble of belief was not about to be burst by him.

“It’s them. I know it,” she said.

“We will see.” Quirk closed his notebook, eased himself out of the chair. “That’s everything for now. I’ll be in touch.”

Marcus saw the Sergeant to the door. He settled next to Abby on his return and she lay full length on the sofa with her head on his lap.

“It’s definitely them,” she said.

“I know. I agree.” He bent over her, kissed her forehead.

She looked around the room. The Blakes had lived here once. The children had played in this room, watched TV, maybe eaten their dinners watching it, sitting squashed together on a sofa like this. It made her feel sad for the life they’d lost, the one they would never live. She thought about everything she’d done over her forty years of life, and all that was to come in the next forty all being well. It was time to move forward.

“I don’t want to stay here anymore. I want to go home,” she said, looking up at Marcus.

His face registered surprise at first then confusion. “Home to Toronto?”

“No! God!” She shuffled into a sitting position. “Home with you, to your place. To our place.”

Relief flooded his face, then happiness, his dark eyes bright with it. “Oh! Yes! Of course, but... your leg. You can’t walk.”

“I can walk some with this splint if you help me, and if not you’ll just have to carry me.”

“I will, yes! Okay.”

He got up, helped her up. Abby hobbled to the hallway, put on her coat and hat. Marcus locked up the house and they left, Abby leaning on him as they approached the restaurant. Lights were blazing inside, and two police cars were parked on the sidewalk near the top of the path.

“Guess they’ll be busy for a while yet,” said Marcus.

“I forgot to ask Quirk how long they’d be.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow.”

Abby managed to navigate the path, but the beach and the rocks were too much for her leg. Marcus picked her up, carried her to his shack, up the stone steps and over the threshold.

“Where do you want to be?” he said.

“Bedroom,” she replied, because being close to him on the walk down, and thinking about spending the rest of her life with him had lit a spark in her and now all she wanted was him.

“Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Oh!” Marcus laid her on the bed. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said with a grin. He lit a fire in the stove then disappeared. She could hear him in the living room, probably getting the fire there going as well so the house would be warm.

While he was gone Abby shrugged out of her jacket, tossed it and the hat on the floor. By the time Marcus returned the room had warmed because it was so small. He lay on his side next to her, put his hand on her stomach.

“You okay?” he said.

“Mmm.” Abby reached out, grabbed the back of his head and brought him to her, capturing his lips with hers.

\---

It was a week before they were allowed back into the restaurant. They’d spent the nice days out on the boat, fishing and exploring the waters around the many small islands that bejewelled the ocean. On the days when the rain or fog eclipsed the rest of the world, they worked on making a chest of drawers for the bedroom. Marcus taught Abby how to do dovetail joints and she had visions of them making all the tables and chairs for the restaurant by hand until Marcus pointed out it would probably take them the next two years to complete the number required in what little time they had spare.

There’d been no news regarding the identity of the body or the whereabouts of Cadogan and friends. His bait and tackle store remained closed, Anders’ locksmith’s van missing. Marcus professed no concern that they would come back to bash him or Abby over the head again but he kept the door locked even when they were in the shack and the only time either of them spent alone was in the bathroom.

Opening the door to the restaurant for the first time after the events of the previous week was an emotional moment for Abby. She stepped through, expecting to see the small hole she’d tripped into and where the body had lain, but almost the entire floor had been taken up with only a couple of strips remaining as walkways.

“I guess that saves us a job,” said Marcus, coming in after her.

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“We might as well start here then.” He took off his jacket and hat, hung them on the rack.

“Yeah. Will you give me a minute?”

He kissed her head. “I’ll put the kettle on. Important things first.”

Abby looked around the room. As well as a place where terrible murders had taken place this was now a gravesite. Was she wrong to go ahead with this, to have tables and chairs where bodies had lain, people walking over the area daily? It was important to move on, wasn’t it? To go forward. The birds outside didn’t avoid good nesting sites because the previous occupants had died. The seals had no care for who had basked on a rock before them. Life went on. She wasn’t religious and didn’t pray, but she closed her eyes, thought about the Blakes, wished them peace and rest. 

“It’s going to be beautiful.”

Abby turned to see Marcus smiling at her, a mug in each hand. Maybe he’d misunderstood what she was thinking, or more likely he was trying to encourage her.

“Yes, it is.” Abby limped along the walkway towards him. Her leg was healing nicely but she still needed the brace. She took her mug from him, stood by his side while she surveyed the room this time with a practical eye.

\---

Three days later they were working on the back half of the room in front of the large windows, installing the last of the underfloor heating panels. It was a squally day outside, the waves spilling white foam onto the rocks in front of the restaurant. They were well into October now, and every day the clouds seemed greyer and heavier, threatening snow but thankfully not yet delivering on their promise. An hour or so after lunch there was a knock on the door. Marcus got up to open it and returned with Sergeant Quirk. Abby hauled herself to her feet. The man was dryer than last time she’d seen him, his moustache even thicker and bushier. His cheeks were red, windblown.

“Hello, Sergeant,” she said, brushing dust and insulation fibres from her jeans.

“Mrs Griffin, Mr Kane.”

“Do you have some news for us?”

“I do. How is your leg?”

“It’s fine,” replied Abby dismissively. She wasn’t concerned with niceties, wanted only to hear his news. “What do you know? Have you identified the body, found Cadogan?”

“Give him a chance, Abby,” said Marcus, putting a hand on her arm. “Would you like a drink, Sergeant?”

“I would. I haven’t stopped since I left home this morning.”

Abby rocked impatiently on her heels while Marcus made the drinks, her brace creaking with every move.

“It’s coming along,” said Quirk, surveying the chaos of tubing, offcuts of insulation board and bent nails that littered the floorboards they’d managed to get down.

“Yes,” said Abby.

Quirk nodded, fished in his pocket for his notebook, looked at it, head down, his moustache twitching as he suppressed a smile at her impatience.

At last Marcus returned and Abby had to wait another minute while Quirk devoured two cookies in quick succession, brushing the crumbs from his moustache into his hand and then eating those too. He looked like a starving hen pecking at the tiny morsels. Did nobody feed him?

“That’s better,” he sighed. “Thank you.”

“Well?” said Abby, ignoring the amused look that passed between the two men.

“Well,” said Quirk, thumbing through his notebook slowly. He was deliberately winding her up now surely. “We found Mr Blake’s sister. She hadn’t lived in Labrador City for a few years, but an old neighbour told us she’d moved to Corner Brook on the Island and we interviewed her and took DNA swabs. I can tell you that the DNA was a match to that we obtained from the skeleton found here and so we have positively identified the remains as those of William Blake.”

“Oh, God!” said Abby, both relieved and saddened by the confirmation of what she’d already known in her heart.

“That’s good news in a sad kind of way,” said Marcus.

“Yes. The remains will be released to her when the investigation is complete. She intends to bury him on the Island which was apparently where their family first landed before moving to the mainland a generation later.”

Abby was pleased to hear that because as sorry as she was for how Bill’s life had ended, he had been a violent man, and she wasn’t comfortable with the thought of him lying next to the wife and children he’d abused while they were alive.

“Do you know how he died?” said Marcus.

“He received a blow to the head from behind. There was obvious damage to the skull when we removed it and the forensic investigators said it was likely to have killed him instantly.”

Abby glanced at Marcus, saw him rubbing the back of his head where he too had received a blow probably at the hands of Blake’s killers. He’d been lucky; they both had.

“The big news I have for you, however, and which I hope will be reassuring for you to hear, is that three days ago Mr Luke O’Neill handed himself in to a police station in Saskatoon thereby enabling us to find and arrest Mr Bill Cadogan and Mr Tom Anders. All three were flown to St. John’s where I interviewed them. Cadogan and Anders were uncommunicative, but O’Neill told us everything.”

Abby grasped Marcus’s hand, feeling the need to be close to him while she finally found out what had happened on that fateful night thirty years ago.

“Cadogan had a longstanding beef with Bill Blake over their business dealings, none of which were above board. He accused him of short-changing him, not supplying what he said he would, all of which Blake denied. The last straw was a break-in at Cadogan’s store which he believed Blake had committed because not only were a lot of items and money stolen but the place was trashed. Cadogan decided to teach Blake a lesson. O’Neill claims they didn’t intend to kill him but that was the result. They ambushed him at the shack when he was on his own, hit him on the back of the head with a piece of wood and were shocked when he fell down dead.”

“He was on his own?” said Abby, surprised because she’d assumed the whole family had been targeted.

“Yes, he was the only intended victim, but as they were contemplating what to do with him because they hadn’t expected to have to deal with a dead body, Aurora and the children walked in. They saw everything in an instant. Aurora started screaming apparently, and the children were crying. O’Neill said Cadogan hit the mother to keep her quiet, and Anders had a knife and before they knew it they were all dead.”

“Before they knew it? What the hell does that mean?” said Marcus. “Those bodies were mutilated. It wasn’t some accident. My dad couldn’t sleep for days after he saw them.”

“I agree that it’s an incomplete account, and it’s convenient that it absolves O’Neill of an active part in any of the murders. I hope to get more out of Cadogan and Anders when they realise the game is up, but that might take some time. My belief is that Aurora and the children were doomed the minute they walked into this shack. The men couldn’t let her go because she might go to the police or tell others in the community and their lives would be over. So Cadogan killed her to silence her and the children couldn’t be spared.”

“I can’t believe anyone could do that to those young kids,” said Abby, tears rolling down her cheeks. Marcus put his arm around her, brought her to him.

“It’s a terrible business all round,” said Quirk. “Once the deed had been done Cadogan and co realised their best chance of remaining undetected was to make it look as though Blake, a man with a violent reputation, had killed his family and fled. They couldn’t get him out of the shack because it was the middle of the day and the risks were too great, so they carefully took up the floorboards and buried him beneath. They were intending to come back and get him once the other bodies had been found but when it came to it they couldn’t do it.”

“So they invented all those tales of ghosts and spirits to keep people away so no one would investigate and find the body.” Marcus shook his head, no doubt remembering the fear and chaos of those times.

“Yes, and it worked so well they never had to return to retrieve the body until Mrs Griffin arrived, and then they tried to scare you off, and when you wouldn’t go they knew they had to finally move the body before you found it during your work.”

“It was them who were in here that night? Who hit Marcus?”

“It was Cadogan and Anders. O’Neill didn’t want anything to do with it, although once you arrived and they knew everything was going to come out he had no choice but to go on the run with them.”

“Why didn’t they kill me and Marcus? They might still have got away with it.”

“It’s hard to be sure because Cadogan and Anders aren’t talking and O’Neill wasn’t there, but I can only speculate that they didn’t have it in them – either the heart to do it or the strength. The original killings were brutal, but if as they claim it was never the intention to kill Blake then it was something that got out of hand in their minds. Perhaps they had no desire to add two more bodies to the count.”

“What a sad waste of life,” said Abby, looking behind Quirk to where this had all happened. It was transformed now, smooth and neat, new floorboards, no trace of the tragedy that had befallen the previous owners of Shack 309.

“We would never have known any of this if it weren’t for you,” said Marcus, pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

“Mr Kane is right,” said Quirk, closing his notebook. “I’m sure this has been a difficult few months for you, but Red Fort Cove owes you a debt of gratitude at the very least.”

“I’ll be happy if this means they’ll finally accept the restaurant and come and eat here when it’s open.”

“It will take time. The only thing that changes quickly here is the weather. When do you plan to open?”

“May next year all being well,” said Abby. “I insist you come to the opening night.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Quirk tucked his notebook into the pocket of his blue Gore-Tex jacket, straightened his cap. “I must be going, but I’ll keep in touch with you, let you know if we get any more out of Cadogan and Anders.”

“We’d appreciate that, Sergeant,” said Marcus, shaking his hand.

Abby shook hands with Quirk too, gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she said.

“Good luck with the rest of your renovation.” Quirk turned on his polished boot heels and left. Marcus didn’t lock the door after him. There was no need now. They were free, safe.

“That was something!” he said.

“Yeah,” said Abby, letting him pull her into a hug. She wrapped her arms tightly around him. “Those poor children, and Aurora. They didn’t deserve any of this.”

“I know, but they’re at peace now. You’ve given them all that.”

“Not just me.”

“Yeah, you. You’re amazing. When I say I love you it doesn’t even convey the depth of what I feel for you. You’re so strong, so determined, and you have a heart bigger than a harvest moon. There’s no one like you.”

Abby pressed as close to him as she could get without melting into him. “Thank you, but I couldn’t have done it without you. If I have strength, it’s because of you.”

Marcus squeezed her, his hand cradling the back of her head, fingers tangled in the loops of her braid. “Better together,” he whispered.

“Yes. Always.”

**Seven Months Later**

Abby stood on the grass outside the restaurant, beneath a mackerel sky that framed the honeyed wood of the old shack beautifully. A gentle breeze blew strands of her long, brown hair into her eyes and she brushed them away along with a tear that had escaped despite her determination not to be overwhelmed with emotion today.

“Are you ready?” said Marcus who was standing next to her. He looked more handsome than ever in his black jeans and dark grey sweater. His hair was an inch or two longer than when she’d first met him and had grown wavier. He was clean shaven instead of the usual stubble. He’d offered to wear a suit as it was a special occasion even though he didn’t own one, but Abby didn’t want formality. She wanted her guests to feel relaxed and to be able to dine in the restaurant whether they were dressed up for a night out or back from a day’s fishing. She herself was dressed in grey jeans and a loose-fitting cream blouse which hid the tiny swell of her belly from curious eyes. She wasn’t ready for that reveal just yet.

“Yes, I’m ready,” she said, stepping up to the door and cutting the ribbon Marcus had strung across it. She turned to look at the crowd that had gathered behind her, which seemed to be half the village and some people from White Rock plus others she didn’t know. She wondered if they’d all fit inside.

“Welcome to Shack 309. Thank you for coming to the opening night. I hope you’ll enjoy this first taste of what we have to offer and visit us often.” She received a spattering of applause, some nods and murmurs, which was frankly more than she’d been expecting. She opened the door and went inside.

The view from the windows greeted her, spilling a warm evening light into the room and over the white cloth-covered table that held samples of the food she’d be serving when the restaurant opened for business the following week. The rest of the tables and chairs were in storage at the Kane family home to make room for the guests. Her shell art adorned the walls, the largest pieces she’d ever made. She liked the one of the boats hauled up on an island the most. It was Marcus’s dory made from sea glass, a seashell representation of their boil-up island, driftwood campfire. She looked out of the window again. The sun glinted off the water, making it sparkle. She couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. She sighed happily.

Ashley with the spiky blond hair, who’d once upon a time teased her and Marcus about their relationship, was standing with a tray of drinks in his hand, his girlfriend, Juliann, next to him with appetisers. They were the first people to apply for the jobs she’d advertised a couple of months ago and she’d employed them as waiting staff. In the kitchen was a young sous chef called Raven who’d worked at Auberge du Pommier when Abby was head chef there. She’d read a profile the Toronto Star had done on Abby and decided a new challenge and change of life was what she needed after an accident she’d suffered. She had a leg brace like Abby once had but hers was permanent. It didn’t stop her moving around the kitchen like a whirlwind when she was cooking. She’d arrived at exactly the right time, been a godsend.

“This is a lot different to last time I saw it,” said a deep voice. Abby turned to see Sergeant Quirk. It was strange to see him out of his uniform but there was no mistaking the moustache and the cheekbones.

“It is, thankfully. Thank you for coming. Have you had a salt cod cake?” She took a platter from the table, offered it to him.

“This is fantastic,” he said, taking another while he was still munching on the first.

“Everything here is what will be on our menu throughout the summer.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Me and the missus are already booked in for the first Saturday in June. Would like to have come sooner but yer all booked up.”

“Yes, we got a lot of interest after the article in the Toronto Star and the news spread throughout the Maritimes.”

“And how is Mr Kane? Doing well I hope.”

Abby searched for Marcus, saw his dark head near the entrance, talking to one of the fishermen from the commercial boats who were supplying Abby with a lot of her produce. “He’s fine. We’ve been working pretty hard on the restaurant, but he’s taken some hours at the school starting September, which will be a nice change of scene for him, and he’s got a publisher interested in a book he’s been writing, a guy he met on his travels a few years ago. He works for Our World, they’re an independent house that specialise in nature writings, things like that. It will be a good fit I think.”

“Sounds like you have exciting times ahead.”

“Yeah,” replied Abby, her hand straying almost subconsciously to her belly.

“Congratulations to you both,” Quirk said.

“Thank you. Please enjoy the food, eat as much as you’d like.”

“You’re trying to fatten me up,” he said, patting his own non-existent belly.

“Not at all,” she said, smiling.

“Raven’s having a meltdown in the kitchen, Abby!” said Ashley when she approached him to get a glass of orange juice.

“I’m not having a meltdown!” said Raven as she appeared at the door with a tray of mini lobster rolls to hand to Juliann.

“What’s the problem? Do you need me?” said Abby, casting a critical eye over the rolls and judging them perfect.

“No. I couldn’t find something, and you know me, there might have been some swearing, but it’s fine. You’ve worked hard enough with everything you’ve done already, enjoy yourself.” With that she disappeared back into the kitchen, dark braid swinging behind her.

“There are people without drinks, Ashley,” said Abby, tracking him as he slouched across the room. She’d forgotten this part of running a restaurant, the staff, the problems, the minor things that took on huge proportions when you were stressed and rushed off your feet. She’d spent most of the last year at a relatively sedate pace. Her heart was thumping but it was an exciting feeling.

“You’ve done a good job, me ducky,” said Mrs Morgan, heading towards her. Her hair was cut short these days and resembled a toilet brush rather than a broom. Someone ought to tell her, but Abby didn’t have the heart and she supposed neither did anybody else.

“Thank you, Mrs Morgan. I appreciate you coming.”

“Oh, call me Aileen,” she said, flooring Abby with the sudden intimacy.

“Thank you, Aileen.”

“You know John, my husband, God rest his soul, found those poor Blake children and the mother back in the day.”

“I know. It must have been a terrible shock for him.”

“T’were. He never spoke of it, not once. Sent him to meet his maker early I thinks. Another victim of this whole sad affair.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“When you came here, I didn’t want ya opening old wounds, that’s the rub of it.”

“I can understand that.” Abby put a hand on Mrs Morgan’s arm, stroked it gently. She’d heard a lot of these kinds of stories over the last few months, finding out that the ghosts and spirits some people were afraid of weren’t so much in their imaginations as their hearts and souls. Links to a past that was remembered both fondly and with sadness. She wished they’d talked to her properly, told her the truth at the time, because she knew how it felt to walk with ghosts, lived with the memory of her dead husband and who she’d been in her previous life all the time.

“He liked his seafood he did, did John.” Aileen took a lobster roll, practically swallowed it in one.

Abby took that comment and the enjoyment of the roll as tacit approval of what she was doing. She left Mrs Morgan, moved through the throng of people, chatting briefly to some, watching others as they ate, discussing the food with their companions. The general consensus seemed positive, which she’d never doubted, because she had faith in herself and her abilities. It had only ever been the building itself that had given her pause. Now that was resolved, it was full steam ahead.

Over at the buffet table a large sandy-haired man was bent over, adding two of everything to a teetering plate. Abby tried not to think about where his hands had been. His small wife looked sniffily over each item. Her plate was much less cluttered, her appetisers carefully selected. Abby took a deep breath, walked over to them.

“Mr and Mrs O’Dowd. How are you enjoying everything?”

“Mrs O’D says me eyes are bigger than me belly,” he said, which Abby doubted was possible.

“I hope you’ll be a good customer,” she said sincerely, because a man like O’Dowd could keep her afloat single-handed in the winter.

“You’ll have to knock yer prices down a bit but it’s not bad scoff I’ll give ya that.”

“Thank you,” said Abby, choosing to take that as a compliment.

She left them to their pick and mix, moved to the back of the room in front of the windows so she could take a moment to enjoy the fruits of a year’s hard labour.

Marcus approached her, a broad smile on his face. “It’s going well!”

“Yes, brilliant. All positive feedback.”

“Of course. We didn’t doubt that, did we?”

“Never.”

He moved to stand behind her, put his arms around her, his hand caressing her belly. “How are you two doing?”

“We’re fine.”

“Not feeling sick? Not too tired?”

“No. I think I’ve turned that corner.”

Abby’s constant sickness a couple of months before while she was trying out new recipes had left them both worried. Marcus for her health, and Abby that she’d somehow lost her love of seafood which had seemed odd because she’d cooked plenty of it for her and Marcus since they’d met.

A trip to Doctor Wilson in White Rock had left them both shellshocked when the doctor had blithely congratulated her for being five weeks’ pregnant. Abby had been on the pill most of her life because she suffered from painful periods, had never contemplated having a baby. It hadn’t been high on Marcus’s list of priorities either, but once they knew it was happening and had got over the shock, they’d embraced it. It felt meant to be.

Marcus was fussier than Abby about how she was feeling and making sure she didn’t overdo anything ever since Doctor Wilson had told them she was considered a geriatric mother at forty-one. She wasn’t too concerned because she’d always been fit and healthy. Marcus was trying to reign in both his fears and his enthusiasm to varying degrees of success. They’d passed the crucial three-month mark a couple of weeks ago and he’d relaxed maybe a millimetre or two since then.

Now that the restaurant was up and running and his practical skills were no longer required, he was turning his attention to Operation Expansion, a name which referred both to his anticipation of Abby’s changing shape and his plans to extend the shack and create an extra bedroom for the new arrival. Abby had decided not to think about what it was going to be like raising a baby with no central heating or bath. Marcus said he’d been bathed in the kitchen sink until he was five so Abby figured they had plenty of time to worry about things like that.

“You’re a success, Abby Griffin,” he said, kissing her head.

“We are, Marcus Kane.”

“I was thinking about that day I saw you in here, dangling your tape measure.”

“You took pity on me.”

“It wasn’t that. I thought you were the sexiest thing I’d ever seen standing on your step ladder trying to measure the window. I knew you were the one for me then.”

“You were pretty hot yourself with your saw.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. The strokes you made. Definite turn on.”

“That’s how we’ve ended up in this position,” he said, stroking her belly again.

“From tape measure to baby,” she said, laughing. “Not the journey I thought I’d be on when I moved here.”

“Me either, but I’m excited to see where we go from here.”

“Me too. It’s not going to be boring that’s for sure.”

“It’s anything but boring with you.”

“Remember how you wanted to live a quiet simple life?”

“I just wanted to be happy, and now I am.” He turned her towards him, kissed her lips.

Abby rested her head on his chest, gazed beyond him to the window and the view of the sea and sky, gentle today, no sign of impending doom, for now at least.

“Being happy together is all that matters,” she said.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a huge amount of fun to write! A different Abby and Marcus and a very different setting, which in some ways I felt was closer to their Arkadia lives than most things I've written because of the wildness and their pared down lives.
> 
> Happy Birthday again, April! Thanks for the inspiration <3
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading, especially as it was a lot in a short space of time. Visit Canada! I fully recommend reading Walden by Henry David Thoreau or any local nature writers wherever you live. We only have one planet, and we need to care for it and live in harmony with it. Don't forget that no matter what you're going through, the day will end, and the sun will rise <33


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